


too damn scared to start

by youabird (nevulon)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, Bodyswap, Communication, Developing Relationship, M/M, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 71,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevulon/pseuds/youabird
Summary: "If it's supposed to be a big secret, maybe don't do it on the road? When your room is right next to your teammates? I mean, come on, Gabe," EJ said, addressing Nate, who was now tomato-red with embarrassment and looked as if he were ardently wishing for death, "Nobody needed to know what you sound like when Tyson's getting you off.""Shutup!" Gabe ordered—from Nate's body.+++Gabe and Nate switch bodies with four games to go and the entire season on the line. That would be bad enough, but Tyson's also in love with Gabe. Everyone handles it super well.
Relationships: Tyson Barrie & Nathan MacKinnon, Tyson Barrie/Gabriel Landeskog
Comments: 69
Kudos: 382





	too damn scared to start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emilyisobsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyisobsessed/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [emilyisobsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyisobsessed/pseuds/emilyisobsessed) in the [wesmashing](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesmashing) collection. 

> I already had 20k of this written when the trade happened, also I do not recognize the trade’s validity and choose to live in willful denial instead! prompt stolen from an old Avsfam exchange; Emily, I hope you like it!
> 
> some of this was researched in great depth, some was conveniently handwaved; if I got anything wrong then it was definitely on purpose. I don’t own & if you’re depicted herein, don’t read.
> 
> title from the Head and the Heart’s “Gone,” but the alternate title is “you’re it, you’re the ultimate.”

April 1, 2018  
Tyson knew something was wrong before he even woke up.

He couldn't explain it. He lay there for a long moment, eyes not yet opened, dread crushing him into the mattress. He could feel Gabe on the other side of the mattress and he could hear him snoring. The air conditioning was rumbling loudly. Tyson kept his eyes closed, heart pounding in his chest.

He didn't have any reason to be panicking. They'd thrashed Chicago at the Pepsi Center two nights before. They were inches away from a playoff spot, for the first time in years. And Gabe had been so _happy_ last night. He'd come straight over to Tyson's hotel room, shoved him up against the door, and then crawled into his bed like he didn't plan to leave.

Tyson forced himself to open his eyes. A nondescript Anaheim hotel room greeted him. The door was shut. Their bags were zipped by the front door. Nothing seemed amiss, at least nothing he could put his finger on.

Gabe didn't stir as Tyson slid out of bed. He was snoring slightly, a faint whistle that could be heard even with the bathroom door shut. He didn't move at all as Tyson briefly showered and pulled on clothes. Instead he lay inert, huddled against the far side of the mattress, hidden under the bedclothes, angelic in sleep.

Tyson debated leaving him there. Gabe didn't sleep in much and he didn't like to be woken up. Was waking him up friendly and normal, a bro kind of move, or pointed and accusatory? He didn't want Gabe to miss breakfast. He didn't want Gabe to be annoyed with him, either.

While Tyson was fretting, Gabe's phone began to buzz on the side table. His arm shot out but he fumbled the button and nearly knocked it off the table. Finally he snoozed it. He must not have seen the time, but he should have realized it was too late to go back to sleep. The sun was bright through the curtains, cutting gold bands across the bed.

"Gabe," Tyson said, resigned, poking at his ankle under the tufts of comforter Gabe had buried himself in. "Come on."

"Tyson?" Gabe said. He sounded bleary and confused. "Is that you?"

"What kind of question," Tyson said, as he fished his phone out of his pocket. A call was coming through, from Nate. They still had fifteen minutes until team breakfast; he didn't have to indulge Nate's insane desire to be early to everything today. He'd scored _three points_. He didn't have to do anything he didn't want to, except maybe wrestle Gabe out of bed. Gabe was still lifeless on the mattress. "Come on, Landy. You're going to be late."

"Landy?"

If this was a new psychological warfare technique Gabe had picked up, it was effective; Tyson wanted to smother him with a pillow. "Yes, Gabe, that's your name," he said, and this time he punched Gabe in the calf. "Get up. You're late."

His phone was ringing again. It hadn't stopped. He hit ignore again and shoved it back in his pocket. He had barely shoved it in when it started to buzz again. Another call, Nate _again_, and Tyson felt a flare of anger rear up in his chest. It was turning into a crap morning, and it wasn't even nine yet.

"I'm not Gabe," said Gabe, crawling out from the blankets at last. He looked at Tyson, and then down at himself, and then he turned white. Tyson had never seen him do that without breaking a bone or tearing a ligament first. The premonition that something had gone horribly wrong returned to him like the tide rushing in. "Jesus Christ," Gabe croaked, touching his own hands like he'd never seen them before. "What the fuck is going on?"

Gabe's phone started to ring again. It was Nate, calling him since Tyson hadn't picked up. The phone buzzed itself right off the nightstand and bounced twice on the carpet, landing somewhere under the bed.

"Tyson, you gotta believe me," Gabe said. He looked nauseated. Tyson, at a loss for words, stood there goggling. "I'm not Gabe."

"Who the fuck are you, then?"

If they didn't make it into the playoffs because Gabe had been abducted by aliens, Tyson was quitting hockey. He was quitting everything. His mind was racing and making no sense. He and Gabe stared at each other, Gabe's mouth open in horror, Tyson's so dry he couldn't peel his tongue away from his soft palate.

"I'm Nate." Gabe's voice was no louder than a whisper.

Tyson felt weak-kneed. Gabe had lost touch with reality. He'd taken one bad hit too many, and he believed he was Nate. _Nate_.

Behind them, the door opened. Tyson whirled, expecting—Bednar? The medical team? An enterprising reporter from the Athletic? "Oh thank God," he said, as Nate's broad face appeared in the doorway, Tyson's spare key clutched in his hands. "Nate, you gotta help me. Gabe is..."

He didn't finish his thought. Gabe was shivery and wide-eyed and clearly going through it, and Tyson was out of his depth. Nothing in life had ever prepared him for this. Drug binges and bad breakups? Sure, he'd handled those. His captain/sometime fuckbuddy having a breakdown? He had nothing. Gabe never broke down. Gabe never let anything get to him. Sure, he got pissed off on the ice, but he'd never been like this before.

Grim-faced, Nate said. "I know. Me too."

"Oh my god," Gabe said. "You're Gabe?"

"Seems like it."

Tyson nearly gave himself whiplash looking back and forth between them.

"What about the rest of the guys?" Gabe said. He'd finally put his hands down, but his eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

"I don't think so. I called EJ and he was fine, and I ran into Sven on my way up here—"

"Can somebody please tell me what is going on!" Tyson said, much more shrilly than he had intended. Nate and Gabe both seemed calmer but Tyson felt worse. Being the one person in the room who _wasn't_ implying—that—was not pleasant. Two of the team's three best players were talking gibberish right before the last crucial playoffs push. And now they were both staring at him, like _he_ was the crazy one.

"Tys," Nate said, reaching out to grab Tyson by the wrist, "I don't know what happened—I don't have _any idea_ what's going on, but—I think we're in each other's bodies."

Tyson realized, as Nate said this, that he was _stroking Tyson's wrist_. That was, as far as Tyson was concerned, the last straw. He yanked his arm free of Nate's grip and almost tripped over his own feet for his trouble. Nate grabbed for him, but Tyson evaded. "No," he said. "No way. I don't know what—_this_—is, but if it's a joke, it's not funny. I don't get it at all, Gabe, not even a little bit."

"I know," said Nate. "I totally get it—"

"Fuck you," Tyson said to Nate, and then, remembering that he was mad at _Gabe_, he turned to Gabe, who was still naked and hiding under the covers. "And I mean _fuck you_. Grow up. I'm going to breakfast."

"Tyson!" Gabe called after him, as Tyson stormed from the room.

"Don't bother," Nate said heavily, sounding just like Gabe did when he tired of Tyson's shit, "Just let him cool off."

For that, Tyson slammed the door hard enough to make the pictures on the wall rattle in their frames.

+++

EJ took one look at him as he stomped into breakfast and grinned his nastiest, gummiest smile. "Hey little Tys," he said with a friendly wave. "Banana?"

"Fuck you," Tyson said. EJ laughed, because he was a freak, but Tyson knew he needed to calm down. Nobody else had done anything to earn his ire, and it was best for the team if they weren't bickering before they even made it to morning skate. Instead, he made himself a plate and sat between Sam and Willy, who were usually quietest in the morning.

Sam gave him a weird look over his eggs. "You sleep well?"

"Peachy," Tyson said. He shoved a bunch of bacon in his mouth so he wouldn't have to elaborate.

Ten minutes went by in amiable near-silence. Willy was chatting about a meteor shower that would appear in Denver at the end of the month; Sam was nodding at the appropriate moments. Tyson didn't have to speak. Willy knew the idea of the playoffs, of _getting there_, made his stomach hurt, so he probably assumed Tyson's reticence was due to that. Sam asked about meteorites as Tyson shoveled down oatmeal and tried not to wonder what Nate and Gabe were doing.

Gabe being a dick, that wasn't exactly weird. He'd never done anything like this before, but Tyson knew their friendship verged on antagonistic. Maybe Gabe thought it would be funny. Maybe it was some elaborate, roundabout way of boosting team morale. Tyson didn't get it, but that wasn't unusual either. Gabe was mysterious about the inner workings of his own head.

Unlike Nate. Nate was the easiest person Tyson knew. He said exactly what he was thinking at all times. Not like Tyson, who was incapable of shutting up—Nate just didn't like complications. Nate _loved_ convoluted drills and workouts designed to push him close to death and intricate, never-ending rules, but he didn't tolerate bullshit.

So how had Gabe gotten him to go along with it?

Willy touched his hand to gain his attention. "Tys," he said, when Tyson removed his gaze from his plate. "You okay, man?"

"I'm great," he said. He stabbed a blueberry that was rolling away. "I'm _great_. Excited for the game."

Willy's expression told him clearly what he thought of that. "Uh huh," he said.

"Honestly," Tyson said, looking between him and Sam. "I'm feeling totally fi—ahh."

Nate and Gabe had just entered the room and were trying, in absolutely appalling fashion, to get their breakfasts. They looked like they were doing bad mime together, moving their arms way too much and standing so close to each other their elbows kept bumping. Gabe sniffed when the waitress offered him an omelet, even though he ate that every morning on the road. Not that it mattered—he lifted his plate at the same time as Nate lifted his, and in the ensuing crash the omelet slid off his plate and onto the floor.

Tyson groaned internally. What the fuck were they doing?

Somehow, they managed to get their food without further incident. Gabe was wearing one of Nate's hoodies, as was Nate, and they were still standing right next to each as if joined at the hip. Nate made eye contact with Tyson as he crossed the room, looking irritable. Tyson ducked his head again.

"Tyson," Nate called. "Come eat with us."

"I'm good," Tyson told his oatmeal.

"Tyson," Nate said again, a little louder. Willy and Sam exchanged a look, confused. It was weird enough that Nate was late to breakfast, but Nate didn't do _this_. Gabe did, sometimes, when he wanted to bully Tyson, but never Nate. "Come on, man. We wanna talk to you about that... thing."

"Maybe you should go," Willy said. Tyson glared at him—where was the loyalty? But he knew a losing battle when he saw it. Gabe was hovering behind Nate's shoulder, chewing on his lip, but if he decided to whip out his captain voice, it would be very bad and very awkward. The last thing Tyson wanted to do was answer to Bednar for why he was getting dressed down at breakfast right before one of the most important games of the season.

He got up and followed as they sat down at the table farthest from everyone else, which wasn't saying much in a crowded hotel breakfast nook. Tyson was basically done eating, but Nate and Gabe both picked up their forks before speaking. Nate took one bite of his oatmeal and then grimaced. "This is disgusting," he said. "How do you eat this?"

"It's fine. It's good for you," Gabe said. Gabe did not eat oatmeal. He called it something in Swedish that sounded highly derogatory and had acted like Tyson requesting he keep some on hand for nights when he slept over was unspeakably rude.

_Nate_ ate oatmeal, though. So they were still doing their bit. Tyson was going to kill them.

"You've got to stop this," he said. He tried his best to keep his voice both hushed and level, but his hands were clenched under the table. "Fine, it was funny, but it's gotta stop, before anybody else notices."

"Tyson," Nate said. "We're _not_ joking."

"The fuck you aren't. That's not—people don't—this doesn't happen," Tyson argued. "People don't get bodyswapped."

"Well, that's what I thought," Gabe said. Tyson hated this—the impressions they were doing of one another were scarily accurate. Gabe was speaking as softly as Nate always did, his vowels broadly Nova Scotian, but it sounded bizarre without the tiny lisp on his _s_ sounds. "But I'm definitely Nate. And I'm freaking out, dude, so you could stop yelling at me."

"You're freaking out?" Nail, sitting at the closest table, looked up curiously at Tyson's words; Tyson ducked in closer to Nate and Gabe. "The two of you sound insane, you get that? We have four games left and you're telling me you're _in the wrong bodies_."

"Well it's not a fucking picnic for us either," Nate shot back, so viciously that Gabe looked at him, startled.

He sounded _exactly_ like Gabe did when he was mad. Uncannily so.

Tyson didn't say anything. Nate didn't either; his shoulders went up slightly, but if he regretted snapping, he made no mention of it. Instead he jammed another spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth, wincing as he swallowed.

Deep down, Tyson already knew it was true. He'd known it since he'd woken up, halfway to panicking over something he couldn't name. Hearing Nate say that, in just the tone that Gabe used when Tyson was on his last nerve, was more proof than he needed. If Nate and Gabe weren't joking, they were seriously up a creek, and he should help them. Nate was his best friend, and Gabe was his... captain. And his friend, he reminded himself.

But he couldn't let it go that easily. "If you're really Nate," he said, to the guy wearing Gabe's face, ignoring the Nate-shaped person who was stubbornly choking down the whole bowl of oatmeal, "Tell me something Gabe wouldn't know."

Gabe thought. It was Nate's thinking expression, on the wrong face—he tucked his tongue into his cheek and stared into space as he pondered. Tyson's stomach sunk horribly. "My middle name's Raymond," he offered.

"No, I knew that one," Nate said. "It's written down in Bednar's office."

"Uh," Gabe said. "Okay, this. Remember the time you threw up on Dutchy's bed at his Halloween party? I'm the only person you told."

Groaning, Tyson put his face on the table. _Told_ was a strong word; Nate had walked in on him vomiting blue vodka onto Dutchy's guest bed and then helped him cover the evidence with an extra blanket. Dutchy had been _apoplectic._ But Tyson was sure they'd never told Gabe that story, and the revolted expression on Nate's face—Gabe's face?—confirmed it.

"That was you?" Gabe-in-Nate's body said. "I thought that was that kid Wilson."

"Well, it was me," Tyson said. He wasn't proud, but he didn't think it was the worst thing he'd ever done either. Gabe, who was definitely in the body of Nate, wrinkled his nose and pushed his plate away.

Normally Tyson would have said something back. Well, no, normally, Gabe would have said something funny at Tyson's expense for having once, four years ago, acted badly at a party. Or he'd say that was the least that Dutchy deserved, and the whole table would laugh. But things were as un-normal as they could be. Nate and Gabe had switched bodies. They really had, and right when their playoffs dream was on the line. Tyson felt that not responding in this instance was justified. Mature, even.

"Okay," he said. "Say I believe you. You're swapped. What the hell are you going to do?"

They looked at each other uneasily. "I don't know," Gabe said. "I don't—it's not like we know how to switch it back."

"Or why it happened," Nate said. He kept reaching up to scratch his beard (Gabe's beard?), like he wasn't used to it existing on his face. Tyson was watching him fuss when he suddenly gasped and sat upright.

"When? When did you—when'd you switch?"

"This morning," Nate said, looking confused.

"You're sure?" Tyson demanded. He knew he was bright red, he knew he was stammering with all his usual grace and eloquence. He did not care. Gabe must have picked up on what he was worrying over, because he was blushing and staring down at the tabletop too. "You're sure it wasn't until you woke up?"

"No, why? Oh, gross," Nate said, as he twigged what was going on. "No, Tyson, you didn't have sex with me in Gabe's body. Ew. Think I'd be scarred if that happened."

"Thanks, Nate," Gabe muttered, sounding as embarrassed as Tyson felt.

It was one worry lifted. But neither of them had any good ideas as to how to get back to their right bodies. They also didn't have anything better than "fake it til you make it" up their sleeves for what to do in the meantime. The _only_ useful thing they could all agree on was that they couldn't tell anybody.

"Tyson basically thought we were crazy," Nate pointed out. He didn't need to convince anybody—Gabe had suggested secrecy and Tyson fervently agreed. "I don't think Bednar's gonna like it if we tell him we're in the wrong bodies."

"We can't afford to get scratched," Gabe said. Tyson didn't say anything. He was busy shredding his napkin. They could probably afford one game—they only needed a few points to clinch, St. Louis was behind them but not that close. But he didn't want to have to worry about that. He wanted to clinch now and get it over with.

"Should we tell EJ?" he asked. "I mean, he's the A. Feels like he'd be more useful here."

"No," Gabe said decisively. Nate looked uncertain but didn't press the point. "We'll tell him when we switch back."

Tyson dropped what remained of his napkin and put his face in his hands. This was going to be a disaster.

"It's got to turn back, right?" Nate said hopefully. "Right?"

Tyson uncovered one eye. Nate was being optimistic in Gabe's body and Gabe was looking dour in Nate's, which was visually correct but logically wrong. Nate was the stubborn pessimist of the two of them, Gabe the optimist. That left the role of the voice of reason to Tyson, and wasn't that alarming to contemplate?

"Yeah," Tyson said, not believing it for a second. "I'm sure."

They finished breakfast and hurried out of the room, trying to edge out without any of the other guys. Kerfy called, "Wait for me, I'm going up too!" but Tyson pretended not to have heard him.

They split up on the second floor, with Nate explaining to Gabe, again, which room he was in and where he'd left his stuff. Then he and Tyson rode to the third floor in silence, the only sound that of the elevator humming.

"So, you slept with Gabe again," said Nate into the silence.

Tyson stared up at the lighted screen as it ticked from two to three, wishing for a swift, painless death. "Don't judge me. You're the one wearing him."

"Tyson," Nate said, following him down the hall very closely. Did bodyswapping make you forget how personal space worked? "I thought you were gonna call it off. That's why you gave me your room key instead of him."

Tyson had been experimenting with ways to grow a backbone for a few weeks now. Last night, he'd had the genius idea of giving his spare key to Nate so that he couldn't give it to Gabe. This had worked for about an hour, until Gabe texted him and said, _Can I come over or what?_ Tyson's willpower had abruptly fled the premises.

"Well, I just let him in myself." Tyson tried not to meet Nate's eye as they entered the room. He focused on getting his things he'd need for skate, but it was hard with Nate's gaze boring into the back of his head. "Guess that plan wasn't foolproof."

"Why were you guys fighting at breakfast?"

"We're not fighting," Tyson said, and they weren't. He and Gabe were chill, and yeah, Tyson felt wrong-footed and awkward a lot of the time, but that was a necessary consequence of sleeping with a coworker who you had unrequited feelings for. "It's just... weird, between us. Obviously, because of this."

Nate sat on the end of the bed, frowning. He was being completely unhelpful in hunting down Gabe's slides and water bottle, and the other little things that Gabe liked to bring to the rink. Luckily, Tyson knew where Gabe kept them in his bag.

"I'm worried about this," Nate said.

This was more than Tyson could bear. He looked at Nate, sitting there in Gabe's body and Nate's own giant hoodie, and for a brief hideous moment, he felt like bursting into hysterics. "You're worried about this?" he said. "Nate. Dogg. You're trapped in _Landy's body_, and you're worried about _this_?"

Nate kept pulling sad faces that Gabe didn't, so familiar and yet so strange. Tyson was sorely tempted to give up, run himself a nice hot bath and stay there until October. Not that he could give in to that impulse. _Someone_ had to be the rational adult in their correct body here.

He put a hand on Nate's shoulder. "Look," Tyson said, "We're going to figure this out. This being you and Gabe. And then we're going to play hockey, and if that goes okay, we can play Dr. Phil about me and Gabe, okay?"

Nate's lip twitched. "Dr. Phil?" he said.

"Dr. Phil. Or Oprah. I don't know. Now, here." He shoved Gabe's stuff into Nate's arms; as long as he was going to be Gabe, he could make himself useful. "You two need to sit together on the bus and figure out how you're going to play as each other."

"You don't think that'll be weird?"

Laughing, Tyson offered him a hand and yanked him upright. "Dogg, what part of this isn't weird?"

Nate smiled, his version of concession. Together, they headed down to the bus.

+++

The skate went... badly.

Not as badly as it ought to have done. Tyson nearly had a heart attack watching Gabe-as-Nate desperately try to lace up Nate's skates with fingers that were suddenly larger than usual, but his unease subsided when they got on the ice. Nate and Gabe didn't wobble as they stepped out, and after a few short strides it became clear that they knew what they were doing. The bodies they were in knew how to skate. Tyson's stomach unclenched as he watched Gabe put on a joyful burst of speed, grinning from ear to ear as he put Nate's explosive acceleration to use. One of the assistant coaches yelled at him to save it for the game, but Gabe continued to look delighted as he wheeled around the rink.

"See something you like?" said EJ, from much closer than he expected.

Tyson jumped, always dangerous on ice. EJ looked enormously pleased himself, sitting on the bench with his bad leg propped beside him. "I'm just thinking. Is that a crime?"

"Not a crime," EJ said. "Just unusual."

He dodged when Tyson tried to hit him with the butt of his stick, and then Tyson got yelled at for attacking the invalid. Not harshly—everyone was in a good mood (with three obvious exceptions). The coaches wouldn't risk affecting the breezy optimism in the room over a little tussling at practice. Tyson called, "Sorry!", smiled winningly, and circled up with the other defensemen. He flipped EJ off behind his back as he went.

It took about thirty minutes for the cracks to start to show. Gabe and Nate could coast on muscle memory for a lot of things, but not everything. They looked fine doing individual drills—sure, they were some conspicuous differences between their normal selves and their bodyswapped selves, but no one seemed to notice at first. Tyson, amused, noticed that Gabe-as-Nate was slightly better at face-offs than real Nate—not that he'd be mentioning that to Nate, of course.

Then came the power play. Everything went immediately haywire. First they went automatically to their usual spot, the wrong spots, and then they kept drifting back as they ran the play. Nate was clearly struggling without his usual speed and control; Gabe was throwing himself around like he wasn't aware how big Nate's body was. The lines in Bednar's forehead became more and more pronounced each time they fumbled it. Gabe turned pinker and pinker as they whiffed it repeatedly, and Nate was contorting Gabe's face in fury.

_Come on,_ Tyson thought, out on the blue line, as Gabe botched Tyson's neat, orderly pass and almost collided with Nemo. Nate was having nearly as much trouble staying on net as Gabe was staying away from it. _Come on, you're better than this._ Even in completely different bodies, surely Gabe and Nate had to remember _something_ of how the power play worked. They looked like a couple of beer leaguers out there.

It didn't get better. Tyson was pretty glad to be excused so that Sam and the rest of the second unit could practice. After retrieving dozens of lost pucks, he was ready to have some water and try breathing again.

But first he had to cut off Nate. "Go talk to Gabe," he said, bumping Nate in Gabe's direction. "Now, while Coach is looking."

"Why?"

Tyson rolled his eyes. "Because you're Gabe, duh. Gabe always talks you down when you play like shit."

Nate scowled, looking like he might like to knock Tyson over. He didn't, of course—Nate was a hothead, not a maniac. He still slapped Tyson in the ankle with the blade of his stick, though. "Who talks to him when _he_ plays like shit," he said crankily, but he did as he was told and skated over to Gabe's side.

Nate knew perfectly well that when Gabe played badly, he was eager to martyr himself, and it usually took the entire team to snap him out of it. What Nate did _not_ know was that it was Tyson's job to talk Gabe down way more frequently than that. By "talk down" he definitely meant "suck his dick," but the sentiment remained. And to think their fan base wanted him traded—if he went, who'd keep Gabe from boiling over with rage once or twice a month? Who was prepared to step up and suck Gabe's dick for the good of the team?

Well, he reflected, lots of people, probably. Gabe was a devastatingly handsome professional athlete. He was good to the people he loved. It wouldn't be a hardship. Sure, he was mean to Tyson pretty much all the time, but Tyson didn't hate that. Honestly, he liked it more than he ought to.

"You're doing it again," EJ said. Tyson's feet nearly went out from under him.

"I am going to put a _bell on you_," he hissed. EJ, looming over him with a smirk on his face, didn't seem perturbed. How he managed to sneak down the bench and startle him on one leg was beyond Tyson. EJ wasn't even supposed to be at practice; technically he wasn't supposed to be on the trip at all, but he'd pushed for it and Gabe had backed his play. His injury had been extremely tough on the defensive corps, and EJ had decided to remedy the situation by hanging around and being maximally annoying. On paper, he was supposed to be mentoring Sam, but all he really did was chirp from the bench and grin knowingly.

EJ ignored Tyson's comment. He was watching Gabe and Nate, brow furrowed. "Any chance your little funk has something to do with them forgetting how to play hockey?"

"I'm not in a funk," Tyson said. It fell on deaf ears. EJ kept on squinting at them. "Hey. I'm not. And they're not either."

"Tys, not to hurt your feelings, but that last play was some of the worst hockey I've ever seen. And you are in a funk. You can tell me about it," EJ said, suddenly sly.

"I can," he agreed. He would rather slide naked across the ice and crash headfirst into the boards than tell EJ about his personal life. Especially when it concerned Gabe. "Maybe you should be working on your protege instead of getting in my business. Since he's apparently getting promoted to first power play unit."

"_You_ were fine," EJ said dismissively, "It's them who can't tell their left hands from their right."

"Who's fine?" Gabe said, as he and Nate came over together. "You talking shit, Erik?"

"A little," EJ conceded, looking displeased—only Gabe was allowed to call him Erik. "Looked kind of rough out there. Did you forget where the goal was? 'Cause Gabe, you're supposed to be in front of it."

Nate flushed. He snatched his own water bottle up, and Tyson realized, too late, that that meant that EJ was watching Gabe drink out of Nate's bottle while glaring daggers at the mildest of chirps. Tyson threw an elbow into Nate's side. Maybe it worked—maybe Nate had always planned to say, "Gee, thanks for telling me." Either way, he flounced off in a huff and EJ was left with a curious look on his face, watching him go.

"Well, that was weird," he said, when Nate was a safe distance away. "What's got him all pissy?"

Tyson exchanged glances with Gabe. "Didn't sleep well," Tyson said lamely. Gabe narrowed his eyes at him, but didn't comment. "He'll be fine. He'll shake it off."

The break didn't last much longer; Barbs came to retrieve Tyson for a defensive drill, leaving Gabe and EJ alone together. Skating away felt like turning his back to catastrophe, as if Gabe might instantly blurt out the truth the moment he was alone with EJ. In desperation, Tyson skated backwards most of the way, watching the back of Gabe's head, ready if Gabe needed him.

Gabe didn't need him. He made EJ laugh and Tyson almost ran into Z for his trouble. "Showing off, Tyson?" Z said, amused, as Tyson cursed and righted himself. "I don't think Nate's looking."

Yeah, well, he wouldn't be. The real Nate was shooting one-timers at the far net and Gabe-as-Nate was laughing with EJ like they didn't have a care in the world.

Nothing went as profoundly wrong as the power play had done. They didn't stay out on the ice much longer—after cranking some odd-man rush drills they called it a day. It was pretty obvious, to Tyson at least, that Gabe was playing like himself in Nate's body and vice versa, but at least they looked competent with the puck. The less they had to think, the better, it seemed. All they had to do, Tyson reasoned to himself, was play the whole game on the fast break, never set up any plays, and definitely never go on the power play.

Easy.

He took a long time in the shower, luxuriating in the chance to stand under the water and turn his brain off. Nietsy asked in passing if he planned on growing gills in there, and for a blissful moment Tyson thought about it. Didn't all drains open to the sea? He could swim out to the ocean, to freedom. Start a new life as a dolphin.

Back in the change room, Nate was, inexplicably, still dressed. "Dude," Tyson said, flicking his wet hair out of his eyes. "Hurry up. Bus call, come on, we have a team meeting before lunch."

"I can't shower," he said, scandalized. "I'm _Gabe_."

Tyson squinted up at him. Of all the things to be squeamish about, Nate was worried about seeing Gabe's dick? Nate saw Gabe's dick _all the time_. "Are you being serious right now?"

"It's like, a violation of his privacy, Brutes."

"Gabe's in the shower right now, washing _your ass_, you think he gives a fuck about his privacy?"

Nate frowned, but he also scratched his beard thoughtfully. Gabe's beard. Tyson was so tired of this. "Yeah, but still," Nate said. "Fuck you, don't laugh. This is fucking uncomfortable, dude, I don't want to make it worse."

"Pretty sure he'll be more uncomfortable if you switch back and he's still covered in day-old sweat," Tyson said. As would everyone in range of his post-practice funk. "Take the shower, Dogg. You guys can talk about your boundaries later."

Finally relenting, Nate picked his way over the showers like he'd never been naked in public before. Despite himself, Tyson found that he was smiling as he got dressed. Sometimes Nate was, in his own demented way, sweet.

Gabe came out looking utterly un-self-conscious in Nate's body. He moved quickly through getting dressed, probably trying not to spend any more time with Nate's naked body than necessary, but Tyson noticed he was pulling on his own socks. A familiar ache sounded in Tyson's chest, just as it had when Nate had been considerate about Gabe's privacy. Only the ache that Gabe caused had sharper edges. Tyson forced himself to look away.

Nate reappeared a minute or two later. He looked like he'd tried to boil himself; splotches of bright pink crossed over his chest and shoulders, and his back was scarlet. Tyson goggled at him.

"What?" Nate said uneasily.

"You're a lobster," he said. "Dude, I didn't even know you could make the water temperature that hot."

"Well, I was cold," Nate said.

"That's so strange, _Gabe_," Tyson said, "Since you're never cold."

Gabe's imperviousness to cold was legendary around the team. At first Tyson thought he just liked forgoing overcoats so he could show off his figure in his tight suits, but they'd been sleeping together for a while now and he'd realized that wasn't it at all. Gabe just ran hot. Boiling hot, really—given the choice, Gabe liked to sleep with his windows cracked in winter.

Nate leaned in to respond, closer than Tyson thought was appropriate, considering he was still naked and in the body of Tyson's frequent hookup. "I'm sorry, but I'm _freezing_," he said. "It's not my fault he's a freak."

"Well, he does have a freakishly large—" Nate slapped his hand over Tyson's mouth before he could finish his thought.

There was no reason for Gabe and Nate to sit together on the way back to the hotel. Tyson wished there were; he wished that he could sit with Nate instead of Gabe, or better yet, by himself. Instead Gabe sat primly in Nate's usual seat and Nate headed a few rows back, looking apprehensive. He settled next to Mikko instead of EJ, Tyson was glad to note. EJ was still throwing Nate and Gabe pointed _looks_, and—to be honest—Nate was undoubtedly the weak link in their secret pact.

"He'll be fine, Tyson," Gabe said, when Tyson stayed standing, trying to read Nate's lips and ensure that Nate and Mikko's conversation stayed in the safe zone. "You don't have to be such a mother hen."

Tyson jerked his head around to look at him. "Mother hen?" he repeated incredulously. "You think I'm doing this for _fun_? Like I don't have enough to worry about?"

"Like you're the only one who's dealing with shit right now?" Gabe said, eyebrows raised.

"Fine," Tyson said. "Next time you run into trouble, don't come crying to me, then."

He slid down into his seat. Eyes closed, he stayed rigid in his seat all through the doors being shut and the bus rumbling to life. Pretending to nap might not have been the mature option, but Tyson had limited options here.

To his surprise, only a few moments of awkward terrible silence passed. And then Gabe said, quite unexpectedly, "Sorry."

Tyson opened his eyes. Gabe was still glaring at the upholstery, but now it seemed less angry and more stubborn. It was hard to read his emotions on Nate's face; as well as he knew them both, he felt half-blind trying to judge what Gabe was feeling.

"Don't worry about it," Tyson said. He and Gabe never fought, not really, and Tyson was quick to forgive Gabe, no matter his faults. "I mean—I know you're worried, too."

Gabe shrugged dismissively. "You were just looking out for Nate."

"You mean Gabe," Tyson reminded him. "Also, you should probably call me Brutes, you know."

Scoffing, Gabe shook his head. "I hate that nickname."

"Yeah well. You call me that, so."

"You have a perfectly nice name." He sounded irritated, like somehow Tyson was to blame for Nate's poor taste.

Gabe had never said a word on this topic before. Gabe was the only person who called him _Four_, but it had been a while since he'd really used that. Mostly Gabe called him by his name. Sometimes _Tys_. Once, in bed, Gabe had slipped and called him _baby_, but after merciless teasing on Tyson's part, he refused to do so again.

"It's just a regular name," Tyson said. "T-Beauty is better."

Gabe rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. "It really isn't."

The conversation stalled out after that, so Tyson put his headphones in and Gabe leaned back in his seat, eyes closed. When they didn't talk, it was almost like having the real Nate back.

Almost, but not really. The real Nate always listened to music, often at deafening volume, and he'd share an earbud with Tyson if Tyson whined for it. The real Nate wouldn't hold himself so stiffly in his seat, either. At least he'd stopped moving in Nate's body like he was piloting an unfamiliar ship. Getting on the ice had helped—Tyson had watched their confidence grow until they'd run into the brick wall that was their power play. Even still, Gabe looked far more at-ease in Nate's giant shoulders than he had done at breakfast.

It was so weird, looking at him. His eyes, Nate's eyes, were closed, his head tilted back against the pleather seat. There was no visible sign that Nate's consciousness was elsewhere. It was his face, his crooked nose, his long chin, his eyelashes fanning across his high cheekbones. Nobody would ever know, so long as Gabe was sitting there stock-still and breathing evenly, that anything at all was amiss.

Gabe's eyes were open. Tyson looked away, caught; he hoped he wasn't blushing. Gabe didn't say anything, but for a moment Tyson thought he might. Then he adjusted in his seat and shifted even further away from him.

Tyson risked another glance. Gabe's eyes were stubbornly closed again. Maybe he hadn't noticed Tyson staring; more likely he wasn't even thinking about it.

If it was really Nate sitting next to him, Tyson would have whacked him in the thigh until he paid attention to him. But it wasn't, he reminded himself, and he and Gabe didn't have that kind of relationship. Until it was really Nate sitting next to him again, Tyson needed to focus on hockey, on the team, and on the playoffs.

The problem was he always knew what he needed to do, and he never did it. Gabe was living proof of that.

+++

When overtime started, Tyson genuinely thought they had a shot at winning. The win wasn't even crucial—with a guaranteed point coming, they had already climbed into the wild-card spot. But still, after their terrible showing at practice, Nate and Gabe had engaged their brains long enough to set up Josty's power play goal and they had even, for a time, led the game 3-1. Surely they could win. Maybe it was even a sign—maybe all they had to do was overcome the messy power play and everything would go back to normal.

Tyson's optimism lasted eighty-six seconds. Nate was on the ice, in Gabe's body, with Mikko and Sam. The crowd was roaring, but they had the puck. Tyson, chest heaving from his own shift, craned his neck to see Mikko take the shot. It bounced off Gabe's stick—Nate's stick—into the corner, and Nate went for it, but he didn't make it in time. Maybe it was the minutes he'd already logged, maybe he still wasn't used to being without his extra burst of speed. Either way, Getzlaf got there first and sent the puck up the ice to Manson. In seconds, their decent chance turned into a 2-on-1 at the other end.

The puck sliced into the net about a millisecond before Mikko went hurtling into Bernie, and then it was all chaos. The only thing that mattered was the score: 4-3 for the home team.

If it had been the real Gabe wearing 92, right in front of the net, would he have successfully tipped in Mikko's pass? Maybe not—it was an awkward angle, and Manson had been all over him. Nate had been playing as a right wing for less than twenty-four hours and he'd done a fucking good job in the game. So he'd made one mistake; Tyson had made several, but nobody was going to blame _him_ for the loss.

He tried to catch Nate's eye as they headed down the tunnel, but Nate, still boiling with rage, wouldn't look at him. Tyson turned his attention to Sam, who was wearing a raw expression and staring at the ground. "Hey," Tyson said, knocking a shoulder into Sam's, "Don't beat yourself up. Shit happens."

Sam kept his face angled down, as sweat slid off his hairline and down his forehead. Seemed uncomfortable, but Tyson was happy to let him stew for a bit. EJ would find him and set him right.

Coach followed them into the room, looking as upset as Coach ever did—not very. "Well, I can tell you," he said, standing solemnly with his hands crossed over his chest, "That wasn't the game we needed tonight. But we're not down and we're not out, not by a long shot."

Tyson listened as he stripped out of his clunkier gear. The mood was subdued but not broken; that crucial point helped buoy their spirits considerably. Getting a point for losing was stupid, but Tyson wouldn't complain if it helped them reach the playoffs. He bet the other guys would agree.

Bednar praised Josty and Kerfy, pointed out what they needed to work on, but he didn't hold them too long. They had another game in LA, looming just over the day's horizon. And maybe they could win that game, too—Nate and Gabe hadn't looked too bad out there, and as long as the rookies kept producing, they had room to breathe.

When Bednar finished up, Tyson's head turned, automatically, to Gabe's stall, as did everyone else's. After every game, Gabe addressed the team. Thus, everyone was now staring at Nate, waiting for him to speak. Aloud. To the group.

Gabe seemed to realize this at the same time Tyson did. They both made wild eye contact across the room, in full despair. Nate hadn't looked up, still divesting himself of his pads and rubbing at the unfamiliar lines they'd dug into his skin.

"Gabe?" Bednar prompted. "Anything you want to say?"

Nate opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. He seemed to be frozen in his seat. "Ah," he croaked, getting to his feet. He rubbed his hands against his forearms, looking not at all like Gabe and really nothing like Nate either. "Uh. We, uh. I mean. I agree with what Coach said."

Bednar stared at him. Tyson didn't blame him—Gabe was visibly dying over in Nate's stall, clutching the wood of his seat to stop himself from getting up and taking over. Meanwhile Nate's mouth was flapping open as he looked around for a lifeboat and found none.

It wasn't that Nate didn't have intelligent things to say about the game that had just happened, or even that he'd never spoken to the room after a game—he was an A, when Gabe was out, he or EJ usually stepped up. But he wasn't good with being put on the spot like this. And impersonating Gabe while addressing the entire team was a pretty huge spotlight to stand under. No wonder Nate was flailing.

The silence had now lasted such an interminably long time that no one seemed to dare meet anyone else's eyes, too shocked and confused by the sudden apocalyptic weirdness.

"Yeah. Good game, boys," Nate continued, speaking at a quarter his normal volume. "Just... uh. Guess we need to do better next time." With that, he sat down heavily.

Oh boy. Tyson dragged a hand over his face. This was a disaster.

"Okay, Gabe," Bednar said. His eyebrows were furrowed so deeply they almost touched each other across the bridge of his nose. "Mack, Kerfoot, Jost, the press'll want you." And with that he left the room, leaving the lingering silence as thick as ever.

No one looked at Nate. Everyone was sneaking furtive glances at him, but no one actually turned their head and looked at him. Nate seemed shell-shocked, unable to finish removing his skates. He must have known how badly he did, but he wouldn't look up and catch Tyson's eye. Even Gabe was hunched over his skates, suddenly very interested in his laces.

Tyson had never been more grateful to avoid press. He overheard snippets of Gabe doing interviews as Nate as he undressed, but there was no cause for alarm. Gabe did fine pretending to be Nate. His accent was completely wrong, but it had been all day and no one had noticed. Luckily none of them ever said anything interesting in their post-game interviews; Gabe had no trouble spitting the same kind of platitudes that Nate used.

He was one of the first to do cardio, shower, and get fully dressed, and he decided not to get on the bus but to wait for the team in the parking lot. It was a beautiful night in California. The stars were out, a faint glimmer in the smoggy sky. Anaheim was exclusively made up of parking lots, but it was in the low 60s at night, in early April—you couldn't put a price on that.

Willy stood with him, and they chatted about music, about artists that Willy wanted to see or had seen before. When Nate came out, he was still scowling, and he was scowling more when he nearly ran Willy over with the door.

"Sorry!" he snapped, startling Willy into stepping back. Tyson knew, from long experience, that he was deeply furious with himself—and if Willy had known he was talking to Nate, he would have understood, too. Nate's rage tended to boil over onto other people, and the team gave him a wide berth when he was irritable. Gabe, however, was pissy and melodramatic but he worked hard to rein himself in, to never go too far.

"Sorry," Willy said, to Nate, who he thought was Gabe. "You okay, Landy?"

Nate made a harsh noise between his teeth and then stomped off to the bus. Willy watched him go, astonished.

"What the hell's the matter with Gabe?" he asked.

"I don't know," Tyson lied. "I'll talk to him."

He caught up with Nate and told him, in no uncertain terms, to ease the hell up. Nate agreed to it with a minimum of fussing, despite his fury. He knew as well as Tyson did that he had gone too far with Willy, just like he'd fucked up when he'd said nonsense after the game, and Nate couldn't abide failure. He was maniacal about it.

"Come to my room," Tyson said, "Give it like twenty minutes and then come over. We've gotta figure this out."

Nate mumbled out an, "Okay then." He looked down at his feet and scuffed the toe of Gabe's loafers against the asphalt. Gabe, when he noticed the damage Nate had done to his expensive shoes, was absolutely going to kill him. Tyson hoped he was around to see it.

Tyson went back to Willy, who was better company at the moment, but they were quickly joined by the rest of the team. Then it was a rush to get everyone's gear stowed and loaded. The boys wanted to get back to the hotel, eat, and then pass out.

The mood was subdued as they boarded. Clearly Nate's spectacular flub of a speech had done a number on the team's energy, which made the conversation they needed to have even more insistent. Tyson was pleased to note that EJ was talking to Sam in low, reassuring tones as they got on the bus; Sam looked marginally less devastated than he had immediately after the game.

Gabe, in contrast, threw himself into the seat next to Tyson, looking sour. "It's like somebody died," he said, jerking his head back, signifying everyone. "I know he was bad, but he wasn't that bad."

Tyson just looked at him until Gabe sighed. "Okay. He was that bad. What the fuck am I going to do?"

"We'll figure it out," Tyson promised. When Gabe just snorted, he put a hand on Gabe's shoulder. "Hey, come on, we will."

He put his hands on Nate all the time—not that kind of soft, reassuring touch, but they were pretty handsy with each other. He didn't touch Gabe much in front of the team, but surely he'd done something like this in private. Either way, Gabe looked first at Tyson's hand and then at his face, something like surprise in his expression. Tyson, turning red, snatched his hand back.

"I didn't—" Gabe started to say, but Tyson cut him off.

"It's fine." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Whatever. We'll figure this out. Just come to my room when we get back, okay? Wait a few minutes and then come over."

It was a short ride to the hotel, traffic considering. Tyson didn't feel like listening to music, so he listened to the hum of conversations ebb and flow around him. Sam and EJ spent the entire time dissecting the game in great detail. The coaches were together in the front rows, heads bent close, probably trying to figure out what to do to restart their first line. Some people were watching TV on their phones, or listening to music. Nobody was saying, "Wow, isn't it funny how weirdly Nate and Gabe have been acting recently?" but Tyson kept his ears peeled, just in case.

Nate sat alone, still fuming. He spent most of the journey radiating pretty strong _fuck off_ vibes, but by the time they got back to the hotel, he'd managed to rework his face to something human again. He even let Barbs get off the bus before him, offering him something close to a smile. Not quite accurate, but closer than he had been.

"Good job," Tyson said in a low voice, as they crossed the lobby together. "Gabe's coming over too, we'll figure out how to deal with this." Nate's answering smile was grateful, but short-lived. Tyson didn't blame him for the lack of confidence, but it wasn't exactly encouraging.

He let himself into his room in silence. Housekeeping had been through since he'd been here this afternoon, taking an unsatisfying nap. The covers were pulled so expertly pin-straight that there was no sign that he had ever been here, or that Gabe had either. Was there some significance to that? Was the universe trying to tell him something about Gabe, something that would help them solve this paranormal shitstorm?

Probably not, he decided. A mystical force wouldn't use a bodyswap to make a point about how little his life had been affected by Gabe. He and Gabe were casual, friendly. They were friends. Honestly, Tyson wished he had more friendships that came with a side of regular, exciting sex.

Tyson was brushing his teeth when Gabe let himself into the room with the spare key Tyson had given Nate the day before. Tyson smiled as he spat toothpaste into the sink—if Gabe only knew why he had Tyson's extra key. Gabe's face appeared around the door right as Tyson was rinsing his mouth out. "Ew," he said, nose wrinkled. "Just get a cup, Tyson, that's disgusting."

"My hand is a perfectly good cup," Tyson said. "Also, I sleep over at your house three times a week, how have you never noticed this?"

Tyson kept a toothbrush at Gabe's house. He was pretty sure it was the only thing he'd ever left at Gabe's house. Gabe had presented it to him, acting oddly intense about it, making sure it was the kind Tyson liked. Tyson had spent several minutes alone in the en-suite, admiring how it looked next to Gabe's toothbrush, sweetly pleased by the gesture. And then they had never talked about it again.

Tyson did his best to keep from leaving things at Gabe's place. The toothbrush was a concession to practicality, but any more than that felt dangerous. He didn't ever want to get used to seeing his life entangled with Gabe's. Besides, Gabe liked his place just so—he didn't want Tyson's shit cluttering up his life.

"I don't know." Gabe was dressed in the most stylish loungewear Nate's suitcase had yielded: he'd matched the sweats to the sweatshirt, both black Nike. Nate preferred to bum around in a ratty Mooseheads shirt whenever possible, but Gabe wouldn't be caught dead in that. "Guess I didn't realize how low my standards are."

"Ha," Tyson said. He brushed past Gabe and sat on the edge of the bed. Gabe followed but stayed standing, hovering a few feet away. "Don't be a dick."

"Sorry," Gabe said. He was looking at Tyson in that same intent manner he had on the bus. Tyson had no idea why. He was just sitting there, in his sweats, doing nothing. He knew his hair looked weird; it always looked weird after he showered, there was nothing he could do about it. But the way Gabe was looking at him didn't seem bad. It seemed almost... heated.

"What?" Tyson said, unnerved.

"Are we doing this?"

"Doing _what?"_

Gabe turned red. "You _invited me to your room_," he said, sounding accusing. Tyson burst out laughing. He couldn't help it—if Gabe was implying _that_, he had to be joking. When Gabe didn't so much as crack a smile, Tyson's laughter died in his throat.

"Are you—what the fuck, Gabe! You're _Nate_."

"You invited me here," Gabe repeated stubbornly. Tyson felt gross at the mere suggestion. He put his face in his hands and shook his own head manually, like a Magic Eight Ball. Surely if he shook hard enough an explanation that made sense would appear. "You were coming onto me on the bus! You put your hand on my shoulder!"

"You're out of your fucking mind," Tyson said. "I invited Nate here too, so we can _figure this out_, you delusional freak. I didn't fucking invite you here for sex. You're _Nate_."

"No, I'm not!"

"Well, you look like him!"

Gabe's mouth clamped shut, and then he sat on the chest of drawers, perpendicular to Tyson. It had been _twenty-two hours_ since they'd last had sex; Gabe was pretty much always up for it, but this had to be a new record.

"How are you even horny right now?" Tyson demanded. "We're in the middle of a fucking crisis, why is your mind in the gutter?"

Gabe ducked his head. "_You_ still look like you," he said, sounding sulky.

Tyson, taken aback, didn't say anything. Was Gabe blushing?

Into this fraught scene came Nate, who banged on the door like he was trying to knock it down. Gabe answered it for him, bringing the conspiracy to a quorum. "Okay," Nate said, as he flung himself onto Tyson's bed, oblivious to the tension. That was classic Nate, though, no matter what he looked like. "What have you guys been talking about? What did you come up with?"

"Nothing yet," Tyson said, relieved by the subject change. "Let's order food. I can't scheme without snacks."

"Shocking," Gabe said, but without vitriol. Tyson didn't bother responding, just picked up the phone on the desk and placed a satisfyingly large room service order. Both Gabe and Nate yelled at him for ordering two kinds of dessert, but that, more than anything, felt normal.

They spread out on the bed, with Tyson's tablet and Nate's phone, while Gabe made careful notes on a pad of hotel stationery. They started by listing all the details they could think: it had happened in southern California, they had been one point out of the wild card spot. Gabe had slept over in Tyson's room on the third floor, and Nate was on the second. "Also, yesterday was the blue moon, apparently," Nate read aloud. Tyson and Gabe exchanged a look.

"What does that mean?" Gabe asked.

"Uh." Nate scratched his chin. He didn't seem to be used to having a full Swedish beard yet. "I don't know, let me look it up."

A blue moon was the second full moon in a month. Gabe wrote that down, because he was writing everything down. Tyson switched back and forth between Googling "bodyswap but for real" and Twitter; Nate kept finding increasingly esoteric data points, including the humidity level and high tide times.

Tyson doubted this had anything to do with high tides. Or even a freak wildfire twenty miles away—none of that had anything to do with them. They would never solve the problem like this.

When the food arrived, Tyson lunged for the door, desperate for a break from Nate playing Farmer's Almanac. He brought the food back and spread it all over the edge of the bed, immediately ripping into a buffalo chicken wrap. "We're going about this all wrong," he said, mouth full of food.

"How so?" Nate asked, looking eager for any kind of guidance.

"It's not about why is this happening, it's why is it happening to you. Like, okay, sure, it was a blue moon, whatever, but why are you two the only people in California who've suddenly switched bodies?"

They took a second to think about that while Tyson continued to chew his food. Eventually, Gabe nodded, looking almost impressed. "Okay, that makes sense."

"Thank you, Gabe," Tyson said. He licked his fingers and then helped himself to chocolate cake. "I'm more than just a pretty face, you know."

Ignoring that, Gabe turned to Nate. "Why would we get swapped?"

"Something to do with the playoffs?"

"Then why not EJ?"

Nate stood up and paced in tight circles while Gabe started scribbling furiously on a new sheet of paper. "Maybe it's to help you get faster," Nate said, circling the room like a trapped animal.

Gabe shook his head. "I'm just going to feel slower when I get back to my own body," he said. "Besides, what does that teach you?"

Screwing up his face, Nate shrugged. "I don't know, maybe my speech?"

"You could definitely use some practice talking to the room," Gabe said tactfully, but then he underlined that point, three times.

It was so strange to hear them talking to each other. Their voices were all wrong—physically they were right, but Gabe spoke louder than Nate ever did off the ice, and it was weird to hear both of them use their vowels wrong, their accents all wrong for their voices. Throw in how strange it was to see Nate's body writing with a pen and paper—well, they had sure left a lot of the existential strangeness out of Freaky Friday.

Nate was picking at some fries, still rattling off theories, and Gabe nodded or shook his head in turn. Witches were out. Ancestral curses were out. Mysterious character-building quests were in.

Tyson lay back on the bed, the plate with his chocolate cake remnants balanced on his stomach. The air conditioning was humming, and his body hurt from playing. It was nice to hear them talk. Obviously he hung out with Nate all the time, but it had been a while since he'd spent any alone time with Gabe where they weren't hooking up. If he kept his eyes closed, the strangeness of their voices didn't even quite register.

Gabe's pen kept scratching away. "Maybe," he said slowly, "This is to teach you. Maybe you're supposed to learn how to be the captain, so you can take over."

"No," Nate said, without hesitation. Nobody, Nate or otherwise, thought anyone other than Gabe should be captain. Tyson couldn't tell Gabe that, it would be way too sappy, but it was true. "No way, Gabe. You're the captain."

After a long beat, Gabe said, "Okay." He sounded quietly pleased. "Well, maybe you're supposed to be the captain for Team Canada then."

"Fucking doubtful," Nate said, and they both laughed.

"What about true love's kiss? That works in Disney movies," Nate said. Gabe said nothing, and Tyson, who a moment ago had nearly drifted off to sleep, was suddenly listening intently.

"Well," Gabe said, voice measured, "This isn't a Disney movie. And unless you have a true love, I think we're back to square one here."

It wasn't even anything, as far as answers went. Tyson's stupid little heart had leapt in his chest, as if Gabe was suddenly going to confess his non-existent feelings, but Gabe was right. This wasn't a Disney movie. He and Gabe weren't some fairytale; they were friends who hooked up sometimes.

They kept talking. Now that the conversation had stopped being interesting, Tyson dozed. After a while, Gabe cleared the food off the end of the bed and sat there, and he and Nate wrote a bunch more things down. It sounded like they had gotten off track and were trying to draft a solution to the power play woes, but Tyson didn't open his eyes to check.

"Okay," Nate said, some time later. Tyson had fallen almost completely asleep, and Nate sounded about ten minutes behind him. "We need to stop. I need to sleep."

"Kind of surprised you stuck around this long," Gabe said, yawning. He moved enough that Tyson felt the bed jostle, but he didn't stand up. He didn't do anything, in fact—he seemed to be hesitating, over what, Tyson couldn't tell. "I didn't know he told you. About us."

"Oh. Well, yeah, he did."

Tyson couldn't let this go on any longer. "I tell Nate everything," he mumbled, eyes still stubbornly shut. Gabe jumped, just enough that Tyson could feel it, but he sounded brisk when he answered.

"I should have guessed. You two do love gossip."

"That's not a crime," Tyson said. He cracked one eye open, but Gabe had stood up and started to sweep the leftover food into the trash. Nate shrugged at Tyson helplessly. "Hey, Gabe. You don't have to clean up."

"I never said I had to," Gabe said shortly. He threw Tyson's second piece of cake away. For a moment, Tyson wanted to yell, but it passed. He was never going to eat that cake—surely, admitting that was a sign of maturity. "Come on, Nate. He's basically asleep anyway."

Nate shrugged again, and then gently lifted Tyson's abandoned plate off his stomach. "See you at breakfast, Brutes," he said.

It was late and they had a game to play, but Tyson didn't want the night to end like this. He did tell Nate everything. Was that so wrong? He was in no way surprised that Gabe never told anyone that they were hooking up, but he couldn't expect Tyson to keep it from Nate. It had been a whole season, almost. Their whole secret thing was definitely doomed, from its inception, but Tyson wasn't _ashamed_ of Gabe.

But then, Gabe wasn't the guy you regretted hooking up with. Tyson was pretty sure he _was_ that guy.

"Did we get anywhere?" Tyson called, before Gabe could fucking vanish. "Are we any closer to solving this thing?"

Gabe turned. He stood there, in Nate's clothes, in Nate's body, and frowned down at Tyson. "I guess not."

"Okay, good," Tyson said. He didn't know why he'd made Gabe say it. "See you in the morning, then."

He flung himself back down on the bed, knowing he was acting like a child, but too exhausted and tired of Gabe to do anything about it. Behind him, Gabe made a soft noise in his throat. The last sound Tyson heard was Nate flipping the light switch off as he shut the door behind him.

April 2, 2018  
Tyson slept dreamlessly, but it wasn't restful; it seemed mere minutes later that his phone was screeching out an alarm. Groaning, Tyson forced himself into the shower and then dragged himself to breakfast.

"You feeling okay, Tyson?" Barbs asked, after Tyson dumped sugar on his eggs and knocked hot sauce onto the table. "Because those eggs look disgusting, even for you."

Tyson briefly considered just eating his sugary eggs, but even he had standards. He got a new plate instead.

They didn't have skate on back-to-back game days, but they had tape review in a hotel conference room. Tyson was dozing in his seat when Gabe came and sat next to him, looking pretty peeved for so early in the morning. Well, that was to be expected—Gabe was in Nate's body, and Nate's body usually slept closer to twelve hours than six. Consequently, Gabe was clutching the largest cup of coffee he could find.

"Sleepy?" Tyson asked, amused despite himself.

"Fucking exhausted," Gabe snapped. He gulped a huge mouthful of coffee, staring daggers at the screen their video coach was setting up. "I couldn't sleep. I was so hot."

"Don't brag," Tyson said. He knew Gabe was pretending to be Nate, and he and Nate always sat together, but it was still nice to have Gabe sit next to him. Even a Nate-shaped Gabe. Especially after Tyson had been such a dick the night before. In the cold light of day, he was even less sure why he'd been so desperate to rub Gabe's nose in their failure to find a cure. He was glad Gabe wasn't holding it against him.

"You have to be ready to talk," Tyson advised him, in a whisper now, in case Nail or Sven were listening. "Nate's always got ideas during tape review, it'll look bad if you don't."

"I have ideas," Gabe said. He sounded affronted. He crossed his arms over his chest, holding his coffee so close to Tyson's arm that he could feel the heat radiating off it against his bare bicep. "I have lots of ideas."

Tyson rolled his eyes. Nobody on the team could touch Nate for sheer, obstreperous competitiveness, but Gabe wasn't that far behind him. Gabe was absolutely going to try to one-up Nate's observations.

Unfortunately, the real Nate was also in the room. The moment the tape started playing, Nate in Gabe's body pointed out three problems he'd seen. Beside Tyson, Gabe stiffened. "How does he even see that quickly," he grumbled, as Nate carefully laid out the weaknesses in the Kings' zone entry.

"He's a freak," Tyson said, patting Gabe on the knee. "But you're him. Just be quicker next time."

He was absolutely confident that Nate was still the first of the two of them to see issues on the screen, but Gabe was used to being the leader, and he was good at seizing command of the room. Unfortunately, Nate butted in once or twice to add a follow-up in a very un-Gabe-like way, but nobody seemed appalled. Presumably they thought that Gabe was trying to make up for the fiasco last night.

As tape review broke up and they all headed upstairs to complete their separate game-day rituals, Tyson caught Nate by the arm. Nate looked somewhat surprised but gamely followed Tyson into the stairwell. "You can't just jump down Gabe's throat like that," Tyson said. "Gabe doesn't do that. He doesn't interrupt when someone else is making a point."

"He completely missed what I was saying about Kempe," Nate said. He looked so like Gabe—but then, of course he did, he was in Gabe's body. But Tyson had to resist the distraction of Gabe's familiar, handsome face, no matter what emotions it stirred up in his chest, and focus on the task at hand.

"I know that," Tyson said. He had missed it too, but that wasn't the point. "But you can't interrupt him, you sounded like a total dick."

"Dude, I'm not gonna sit on something that can help the team to save Gabe's ego," Nate said, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm not saying that! Just wait _ten seconds_," Tyson said, but he couldn't convince Nate of his point. Nate was way too stubborn and way too devoted to the team; if he saw something that looked wrong, he wanted to fix it, right away.

Stewing in his own thoughts, Tyson went grimly to his room alone.

He made a list, as he killed time before lunch, of everything that Nate and Gabe needed to do to convincingly be each other. Nate needed to address the room, to gently correct players who were struggling, to hold back and not charge into every problem at once. He also needed to be level-headed until they got on the ice, in which case all bets were off. Gabe needed to be grumpy all the time, supernaturally gifted at hockey, the first person to see every issue, and the hardest worker on the team. That was a long list of things to work on, but what was the point of it all?

Maybe Nate would learn to lighten up? But that seemed a pretty flimsy reason to be bodyswapped.

_want lunch?_ Nate texted him from Gabe's phone. They were carrying each other's cell phones, because they didn't know how they'd explain it if someone called and the wrong voice picked up. Tyson did want lunch, but not with him.

_going with Gabe_, he sent back. And then, to make that not a lie, he sent another message to Gabe: _you in for lunch?_

It just made sense, really. Tyson didn't always eat lunch with Nate—he went out with a rotating cast of guys, and Nate usually, but not always, tagged along. The fact that this gave him a chance to ditch the real Nate, who'd gotten on his nerves, was purely coincidence.

_broo I can't be Gabe in front of Mikko_, replied Nate, as Tyson took the elevator down to Gabe's room. _come on!_

_just go by yourself._ Perhaps it was vindictive, but if Nate didn't want to listen to Tyson's wisdom, he would have to reap the consequences.

Gabe didn't answer his door when Tyson knocked, but Tyson heard his phone ringing on the other side of the door. "Open up," he yelled, knocking again. From inside, there was a groan. "It's lunch, dude. Let's go eat pasta."

"Give me ten minutes," Gabe called back, sounding irritated.

"I am not going back to my room for ten minutes!"

Gabe didn't say anything. Tyson wished that _he_ had a spare key, but Nate hadn't given him one. He banged both fists on the door. "Come on, man, what are you doing? Your hair looks fine!"

"_Tyson!_" Gabe yelled.

In Tyson's defense, he really hadn't been expecting Gabe to be jerking off in Nate's body. Especially not at lunch time. But as Tyson stood there, wondering _what_ was so important that Gabe couldn't bear to be interrupted, his mind suddenly put two and two together and made four. Shocked, he made a weird sound, half-giggle and half-disgust, and then stumbled a step back from the door.

"Oh," he said. He didn't know if Gabe could hear him. "Uh. I guess I'll go catch up with Nate."

Nate wasn't in his room, but Tyson found him in the lobby, where he and Mikko were standing grimly next to each other. They both lit up when they saw Tyson. "Hey Tyson," Mikko said, reaching out to cuff Tyson on the shoulder, "You want to come get lunch with us?"

"Sure," Tyson said. "I would love to."

"I thought you were going with Gabe," Nate hissed, as they piled into an Uber, Mikko in the front seat.

"Don't fucking ask," Tyson said. He stared determinedly out the window.

It became clear, in the stilted silence of the car on the way to the restaurant, that Nate was _not_ joking about being unable to pretend in front of Mikko. At the very least he was unwilling—he didn't say more than six words during the drive. It was so quiet that the driver ended up engaging with Tyson and Mikko about what it was like to play professional hockey. "It's really great," Tyson said, watching Nate scowl steadfastly out the window at the blur of the Los Angeles suburbs. "We have a lot of fun."

The restaurant was only ten minutes away, but it felt like an hour. When the three of them stumbled out into the bright sunshine, Tyson caught a glimpse of Mikko's face for the first time since they'd gotten in the car. He looked dreadfully confused. As Nate marched into the restaurant, Mikko said to Tyson, "Is there something wrong with Landy?"

"Uh, lots of things," Tyson said. The restaurant was a basic Italian place, fancier than he liked, but it would have carbs and a lot of them. "I don't know. Why would I know?"

"Because you two are good friends," Mikko said as they slipped into the glass vestibule. Tyson squinted at him, but Mikko didn't seem to be kidding.

Tyson did not consider him and Gabe to be good friends. Friends, sure, but despite having long-standing feelings for Gabe, Tyson had spent the majority of their eight month fling trying _not_ to hang out with Gabe. He'd rationalized it to himself: boundaries were important when fooling around with the coworker you were in love with. Gabe invited him over, they had sex, Tyson left, that was that.

But then, Mikko knew that Tyson spent a lot of his free time with Gabe, and he probably didn't assume they spent it hooking up. Why would he? Gabe hadn't told him.

The hostess sat them at a private table in the back, sectioned off by an alcove and a wall of decorative greenery. That was nice of her, but Tyson couldn't imagine anyone would have approached their table. For one, they were moderately well-known hockey players in a city full of movie stars. For two, Tyson had been at more cheerful funerals. Nate sat there, eyes fixed firmly on his food, barely speaking. Tyson and Mikko did their best to hold a conversation, but it was remarkably difficult to chat around someone silently, furiously chewing noodles.

Poor Mikko just looked baffled. Tyson kicked Nate under the table several times, but it didn't work. "Stop kicking me," Nate growled, the third time Tyson did it. After that, Tyson gave up and ignored him for the rest of the lunch, which made it easier to talk to Mikko but made Nate's glare carve even deeper across Gabe's face.

Tyson had never been so thrilled to get back to the hotel for his afternoon nap.

When they got on the bus that afternoon to head down to the Staples Center, Tyson pointedly sat by himself. Both Nate and Gabe were staring at him, but Tyson didn't care. He'd had enough of both of them. Gabe was a freak who was horny all the time and had worn Nate's suit sans tie and with the top button undone, all European and chic and unlike Nate. Nate had the social skills of a brick wall. Tyson had done enough for them for one lifetime.

His phone buzzed, a new message coming through. _sorry I was an asshole_, wrote Nate. Tyson looked over his shoulder at Nate, who was also sitting by himself but leaning out in the aisle, hoping to catch Tyson's eye. His expression was more grumpy than sorry, but he had apologized, and that wasn't nothing.

For a split second, Tyson wished it was really Gabe who was apologizing, and not just a Nate who looked like him. Gabe almost never apologized. He never did anything that required an apology. If Tyson had gone and caught feelings, then that was his fault and his alone.

Nate was still watching him. Sighing, Tyson sent him a reply. _you've got to get better at pretending. people are going to figure it out._

Nate frowned down at his phone and didn't respond. That was fine; Tyson wasn't ready yet to forgive him for being such a dick.

The bus rumbled to a stop in downtown LA and they headed off the bus, the heat making their suits stick to their skin immediately. Tyson sweat enough in the thirty-second walk inside that he was dreading the PR staff taking his photo, but there was no one to tell that to. Instead, he just grinned through the photo, his heart nowhere in it.

In the locker room, they stripped out of their suits and put on their leggings and Under Armour, because playing hockey was 30% getting dressed and undressed. Tyson rarely played two-touch but he joined in today. There were a lot of guys on the team, and he was friends with all of them—just because he wasn't speaking to Nate or Gabe didn't mean he had to sulk by himself.

Still, it would have been more fun if he were better at two-touch. Tyson just didn't think that a measly bit of incidental contact with the ground was a big deal. "Just kick harder," Z kept telling him. Z had appointed himself High King of two-touch, which mostly meant he treated it as a forum to be imperious _and_ to act the fool. Tyson kicked the ball at his face; Z dodged it easily and then the guys yelled at Tyson and made him retrieve the ball.

"This is a stupid game," he complained, but honestly he was enjoying himself.

"You just hate because you're bad. Get talent, like me," Z boasted, and again Tyson tried to launch the ball at his face, and again he missed.

Gabe skulked around the edges of the game for a few minutes, but he didn't join in. No one asked him to, either; they'd tried to include Nate before, sure that his killer reaction time would make him a solid addition, but Nate tended to take it too far. They had lost seven balls in the bowels of the Pepsi Center before the two-touch crowd had decided to stop inviting him to play.

The real Nate was doing captainly things with Bednar and the other coaches. Tyson had a bad feeling about that, but there was nothing he could do about it now. And honestly, it was fun to pretend they weren't embroiled in a magical crisis. The season had been up-and-down, but for the most part it had been awesome. It was good to let things be easy, even just for a little while.

Willy caught him as they were heading back to the locker room. "You looked like you were having fun," he said. He was smiling proudly, like Tyson had achieved something.

"Well, I was," Tyson said.

"I'm glad. Seems like you've been having a rough time of it lately."

"Oh." Thinking fast, he said, "Well, just, you know. Had a rough night's sleep, and then that game yesterday."

"Right," Willy said. But he hadn't dropped eye contact, and he seemed to be searching Tyson's face for a long moment. Then, right when Tyson was beginning to squirm, he shrugged. "Well, nice to see you back in action, buddy."

If Tyson's whole life hadn't been so goddamn messy at the moment, he would have investigated that further. As it was, he was glad for the out and he took it. He threw his arm around Willy's shoulder and said, "You bet your fucking life, Willy, I'm always in on the action."

He didn't drop his arm as they walked back to the room, and Gabe gave him a weird look. Then Nate gave him a _weirder_ look, which made Tyson briefly reconsider what he was doing. But he wasn't doing anything wrong. He was still obsessing over the bodyswap, he was allowed to take five minutes out of his day to hang out with Willy.

"Move it or lose it, Tyson," EJ announced cheerfully, as he hobbled into the room on his crutches. As he'd be spending the evening in the press box, he was still wearing his suit, but he looked unusually good in it. Tyson suspected that he was channeling his restless energy into his wardrobe. "Didn't want you guys to get the chance to miss me."

"We don't miss you," Tyson said firmly, as he went to his own stall. "Right, Sam?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "No, we don't miss you."

"Liars," EJ said, and plunked himself down in the stall that ought to be his. Tyson missed seeing him there. "What's the game plan tonight? Who's going to score a hat-trick, you think? You, Barrie?"

"Ha," Tyson said, stripping out of his shirt. "You think Doughty's gotten that soft?"

"As soft as your two-touch skills, maybe. What the hell was that, by the way, Tys, you ever seen a soccer ball before?"

EJ was a relentless pain in the ass, but he was good for morale. It was clear why he'd been so insistent on traveling with the team, and why Gabe had gone to bat with Bednar to make it to happen. By the time the team took the ice for warmups, they were in as good a mood as they had been all season. A win tonight would be enough. Hell, another overtime loss would get them almost there.

They could do this.

+++

The second period ended the way the first period had—with the Avs trailing. Tyson almost punched a wall in frustration as they walked down the tunnel. After two days of worrying every fucking minute that Gabe and Nate's magical switcheroo was going to cost them the playoffs, he was the one playing like dirt.

First he'd just stood there like a pylon while Mitchell cruised around and scored. Then, unforgivably, he'd given up a short-handed goal to Dustin fucking Brown, who'd had the gall to take the shot between Tyson's legs. Tyson had essentially been a fucking screen on his own goaltender. And he'd done fuck-all on the other end to make up for it.

He slammed his helmet into the back of his stall. Nobody stopped him. The room was quiet, guys talking softly interspersed with the sound of clasps releasing and the creak of benches. They weren't exactly dazzling, but they were only down by one. He was the one playing like shit.

He took no pleasure in it, but Gabe and Nate had been anonymous on the ice as well. That short-handed goal was made possible in part by Gabe's complete failure to get back in time, but it was only a tiny piece of the puzzle. If not for Tyson's sheer incompetence, the goal never would have happened.

Bednar came into the room and stared at him, Tyson, in particular. Tyson wilted, putting his head into his hands. It fucking stung to be looked at like that. He didn't lift his head as Bednar said, "That was not our best. Do you know why? Right now we have no energy. No _hustle_. Only one team on the ice looks like they're fighting for a playoff spot, and it's not us."

Tyson winced, eyes firmly fixed on his feet.

"Here's what we're going to do," Bednar said, pointing to the whiteboard with their play diagrams written on it. "We're going to get back to our game. We're going to control the pace. And we're going to play with a little heart, you got that?"

It was rhetorical, but Tyson nodded anyway.

Nate-as-Gabe was called away to do press, but Tyson grabbed him as they went down the tunnel to start the third period. "If we lose," he told him, rapid-fire and quiet, so the other guys couldn't hear, "Just pick three things we did well, okay, and then when you talk to the guys after Bednar, tell them what they did well and we need to build on it, okay?"

"Tyson!"

Nate and Tyson both turned; Gabe was right behind them and red with fury. "Don't fucking tell him we're going to lose," he said, sounding as angry at Tyson as Tyson was at himself. "We're not going to lose this game."

Tyson didn't say anything, but he thought that was the worst thing he could have done. Gabe's mouth contorted into a pressed line, white with fury, but then they were back under the bright lights and none of them could speak any more.

In Tyson's defense, there was a good fucking chance they were about to lose. They were only down by one, but they came out in the third far from their best and the Ducks, also fighting for a playoff spot, just wanted it more. There were just too many cracks: the defense was sputtering, Mikko looked shaky for no discernible reason, and the team was populated with call-ups and guys claimed off waivers to staunch the endless tide of injuries. And while he didn't want to throw it in Gabe's face, neither Gabe nor Nate had scored a goal since they'd switched bodies. Having two of their top scorers out of commission was hamstringing their offense.

Tyson still fucking played his heart out in the third. He didn't _want_ them to lose. If given the chance, he'd have gone back and replayed the entire first and second periods, even as tired as he was. But after the first few minutes of the period bled away into missed chance after missed chance, he was certain. They were going to lose.

He didn't see who scored the final goal because there were four Kings standing in front of Bernie's net, Warsofsky lost in the pile. But Clifford skated away from the scrum with his arms raised as the horn sounded, and Tyson could read the writing on the wall. The score board ticked over to 3-1. Another nail in the coffin. Tyson was grimly unsurprised. Further down the bench, Gabe threw his water bottle at the boards in a towering fury.

They pulled Bernie at the end of the period. It didn't fucking matter. The Kings won and the Avs went home pointless. They were one point ahead of St. Louis, a razor-thin margin that nobody was sure would hold.

Bednar was visibly upset with them, which was a guarantee that they'd get bagskated tomorrow. It wasn't all Tyson's fault, but it was a lot his fault, and he hoped that nobody tripped him on the way to the bus. Or worse—tried to comfort him. He was still furious with himself, and he wanted to be left alone to stew in it.

"Gabe," Bednar said, when he'd rumbled himself out of things to say, "You got anything to add?"

Nate looked a little green around the edges, but he nodded and stood. He searched for Tyson in the crowd. Tyson had never felt less positive but he did his best to look encouraging. "Okay," Nate said. "That wasn't our game. I think we all know that. We didn't play our game, and we lost because of it."

So far so good. Tyson wondered how Gabe was liking it, but he refused to check. Nate nodded to himself, evidently pleased he'd managed the first hurdle. "We were slow, we didn't have enough pressure on the forecheck. Nobody was fast enough back to help on defense, especially you, Tyson. And didn't anybody hear what I said about Kempe, this morning? He's way too dangerous for us to guard him that lightly. Ghetto, you let him go straight past you, and Warsofsky, he's gonna beat you back every time if you let him get that first acceleration."

If the silence had been notable, before, it was now deafening. Tyson covered his whole face in his hands. Sven and Warsofsky, who was a fucking call-up, both looked ashen-faced at being singled out in front of the whole goddamn room. Nate must have realized he'd made a mistake, because his next sentences weren't nearly as confident.

"But—well. I mean, there were good things too. G, good job getting Mitchell to take that penalty. Uh. I mean, the second power play looked good. The first didn't, but... yeah. That's two things. Uh, Bernie, you looked good. Sorry we couldn't back you up. I guess... that's everything."

He shut his mouth and sat down again.

"Okay," Bednar said. He sounded bemused. "I'll let you know who's on press in a minute."

The last dribbles of Nate's confidence were melting out of him, leaving him as pale as any other guy in the room. Tyson knew someone should go talk to him, but he didn't want to. On top of his bitter self-recrimination, Nate had called him out. In front of everyone.

He didn't stick around. He knew he wouldn't be on press duty tonight—who the fuck would want to hear what _he_ had to say, the only -2 on the team tonight, the worst player by a country mile—so he went next door and started working out. At this point, all he wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed, but he didn't want to lie awake all night. He figured if he exhausted himself now, he'd sleep dreamlessly at home. The added benefit was that he didn't have to talk to anyone.

The team cycled in and out, getting in their post-game workouts before their showers. No one took the spot next to him, which was fine with Tyson. Unlike Nate and even Gabe, he didn't sulk, usually, so he figured he was entitled to this one. Even though his legs were already screaming, he got on the bike, confident that no one would get in his face and tell him to stop.

Which was wrong, of course. There were at least two assholes on the team who had never had any issue telling him what to do, and the one he least wanted to see came and found him. "Knock it off," Gabe said sharply, pulling one of Tyson's earbuds free of his ear, "You've done enough."

"Don't tell me what to do," Tyson snapped. He stopped, though. Gabe was right, and he didn't want to lose them their next game by being an idiot.

Gabe shook his head. He'd taken a tripping penalty in the second period, which had been dumb, but hadn't led to any goals against. Tyson was so mad at himself it felt like it was bursting out of him, and the only place he had to direct it was at Gabe.

Gabe, being Gabe, instantly went and made it worse. "I told you," he said, "Not to tell him we were going to lose."

Tyson bit back any number of creative retorts. "Oh, like that speech was my fault," he said, getting off the bike and turning his back to Gabe.

"Oh, very mature, Tyson, you're going to walk away from me again?"

"What do you mean, _again?_"

Gabe stood there, arms crossed, looking defiant. "Earlier," he said. "When you tried to barge in my room."

Tyson could not believe that Gabe was bringing _that_ up, right now, one room over from the rest of the team. Except it was Gabe, so of course he could. He mopped at his sweaty hair with a towel and didn't look back at Gabe. "What the hell was I supposed to do, stick around?"

"You've been avoiding me all day!"

"I can't believe you, by the way," Tyson snapped. He was warming to his theme now, remembering every annoying thing Gabe had done the last few days. "Nate was all worried about your privacy, and you're just jerking off?"

"I talked to Nate," Gabe said, catching up to him. "He said it was fine, we don't have any idea how long we're going to be stuck like this. Why do _you_ care?"

"I don't!"

It was obviously a lie. Tyson didn't care if Gabe jerked off, in Nate's body or his own. It had nothing to do with that, but Gabe had propositioned him in Nate's body, freaked out at him for being realistic, and was now yelling at Tyson while the loss was still raw. He and Gabe _never_ fought, and this was their second blow-up in two days. It was a mess; Tyson just didn't have the spare brain cells to untangle it now.

"Right," Gabe said, in that airy voice he used when he was being a dick, "Of course you don't."

"Fuck off, Gabe. I mean, Nate. Sorry about the fucking goals. I'll try harder not to cost us the playoffs." With that, Tyson slammed his shoulder into the change room door, letting it fall heavily and completely shut in Gabe's face.

He thought he heard Gabe say something from the other side of the door, but he didn't go back. If he went back he'd either yell or cry, and he wasn't prepared to do either in front of Gabe.

They only had so long before they had to be on the bus. He showered quickly, jammed his clothes back on, and hightailed it outside with minutes to spare. He sat by Gabe because he didn't want anyone to ask questions, but luckily Gabe already had his eyes closed and his headphones in. Small mercies.

Maybe, Tyson reflected, as the bus pulled away from the curb, the point of the bodyswap was to teach him the pitfalls of being so codependent with Nate. If they weren't so glued to the hip, he wouldn't have to sit next to Gabe three or four times a day. That would be nice, he decided. That would be very nice.

The flight was quiet. Gabe and Tyson sat next to each other again. There was no need to speak, or even look at each other. Gabe was, despite his other faults, considerate of Tyson's personal space. He ceded the entire armrest and curled up on his side. Tyson couldn't even hear the music he was listening to. It was like sitting next to a ghost, or a stylishly dressed mannequin.

Nate was somewhere in the back of the plane, probably alone. Tyson didn't know where everyone else was sitting, if they were in their usual seats, if they were whispering about his disaster game or Nate's disaster speech—hell, they could have been having a rambunctious canasta tournament, and Tyson would be none the wiser. He had built himself a cocoon of white-hot fury and the loudest rap songs he had saved on his phone. No one dared disturb him.

EJ tried to catch him as he got off the plane in Denver, but Tyson shook him off. "I don't want to talk about it," he said. The air was freezing after two days in Southern California. "Please, let's just talk tomorrow."

"It's not about hockey," EJ said, and that made Tyson's stomach slide into his knees.

He'd had it all wrong; Nate wasn't the weak link in their secret pact, he was. If EJ tried to engage him on how his _feelings_ were affecting his game, Tyson would crack. EJ was a lot of things—a gremlin of a man, a known busybody, a pain in the ass—but Tyson had known him since he was a rookie. He was a combination of older brother and mentor, and he knew every soft spot Tyson had. A single hard question from EJ, and Tyson was going to blab, about _everything_. He just was.

"Can it wait until tomorrow?" Tyson said, halfway to desperate.

He must have sounded pathetic; EJ decided to take pity on him. "Tomorrow."

Tyson would worry about that conversation in the cold light of day. At this moment, his only goal was to get home and crawl into bed, possibly still fully clothed, and pass out for a millennium.

He drove home with the windows cracked open to keep the breeze flowing. He arrived just after two am. The night was still, and the sky was velvety black and studded with stars. Tyson noticed none of it and parked in the garage. He sat in his car for a long moment, rubbing at his face.

The Gabe thing had been so easy when it started. They'd gone for dinner the night after a preseason game and gotten tipsy on cocktails. Gabe had put his hand on Tyson's leg in the back of the Uber, and then they had sex. And Gabe hadn't said, "I'll call you," and Tyson had definitely not mentioned his inconvenient crush. They went to practice without discussing it. Then Gabe had started texting him every few days, asking him if he wanted to come over.

Now it was eight months later and they were having sex multiple times a week, their current bodyswap crisis notwithstanding. Tyson wanted more, but he'd wanted more with Gabe for ages now. It seemed foolish to hope for more, especially in the midst of so many ongoing crises.

This thing with Gabe had to end, sooner rather than later. It was inevitable. Tyson had first learned that word in grade six, when he'd understood that he wasn't just a kid whose dad knew Wayne Gretzky—he was a kid whose future was laid out for him, a table set for just one person. He'd play hockey because it's what his family expected. It didn't matter that he hadn't even _liked_ hockey; his dad had played, he was going to play. Over time, he'd recognized further parameters that would hem in his life: he was really, genuinely good, good enough to make a career out of it, and he'd grown to love it, just like his dad promised he would. His romantic life would never be easy, because liking guys and playing hockey still didn't mix, even though this specific locker room didn't care. And no matter how deeply his feelings for Gabe ran, Gabe was never going to like him back. Not really. Not in the way he wanted.

Gabe didn't want to date Tyson. At this rate, Gabe probably didn't even want to _speak_ to Tyson; Tyson had pissed him off twice in two days. Gabe had to be getting tired of him by now. Well, that was fine. It was probably time that Tyson stopped deluding himself about their relationship. If he could get his act together, he could even break it off before Gabe did and salvage his pride.

But that was a big if.

The problem wasn't getting solved tonight. Sighing, he got out of the car and went into the house. He wolfed down a quick sandwich because he was starving, even after dinner on the plane. Just as he was about to head upstairs, he heard a peculiar sound: the doorbell ringing.

Confused, he looked at his watch. It was nearly three in the morning. Who the fuck...?

He almost yelled when he found Gabe standing on the other side of the door. Of course, it wasn't Gabe but Nate, who had the misfortune of looking exactly like the person Tyson was so painfully hung up on. "What?" Nate said, frowning. "I texted you."

"I thought that was Gabe," Tyson said. He'd seen the name appear on his phone and had ignored the message.

Nate eyed him for a long minute. He was still in his suit, so he'd come straight over, and Gabe's car was parked in Tyson's driveway. "Can I come in?" he said, sounding wary.

"I guess." Tyson stepped back to let him. "What the hell, Nate?"

The liquid flame of fury that had been powering him through post-game and travel home had sputtered out by now. Now he was just bone-deep exhausted and desperate to get bed. But it was weird to see Gabe's face and body here, even if they currently belonged to Nate. Tyson never invited Gabe over. He was extremely careful never to invite Gabe over.

Nate shrugged. "I wanted to hang out with you."

"Aren't you mad at me?"

He looked bemused. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"Because I cost us the fucking game?"

"Oh. No you didn't," Nate said. Tyson could tell he meant it. Nate had no poker face, and worse, he was speaking kindly, as if he thought Tyson might spook if he came down at all harshly on him. It was better than getting chewed out in front of the whole team but it still sucked. "I know I was harsh, but you weren't even that bad. And it's my fault, it's this fucking bodyswap, it's messing with our heads. If you were mad at _me_, I'd understand."

Laughing hollowly, Tyson sat on the stairs. "I didn't give up two goals because I was mad at you. I'm a professional, Nate. I gave them up because I suck."

Nate smiled half-heartedly, no humor in his expression. "It wouldn't have mattered if I could buy a fucking goal."

"Hey," Tyson said sharply, "Don't say shit like that. You're not Gabe, you're trapped in his body and you had no learning curve at all, alright? What you're doing is incredible. You're not the only guy on the team, we're not showing up for you."

Nate smiled again, and while it wasn't a fraction of his normal happiness, it was at least real. He came over and sat next to Tyson on the step. "Bednar took me aside," he said. His voice was low, like he was passing on a secret. "He and I talked a lot before the game, and then I went and fucking blew it. He pulled me aside, after. Basically told me I'm a shitty captain."

"He didn't." Tyson refused to believe Bednar had said that. Nate was not a shitty captain. He wasn't as good a captain as Gabe was, but Gabe had never had to do what Nate was doing the last few days. Besides, Nate loved the team and every guy on it, and he loved the sport of hockey like it was his own child. He was doing his best, and Tyson felt horrible that his tantrum had blinded him to how hard Nate was struggling.

"It's what he meant," Nate said, shrugging. "Said I wasn't inspiring the room, and that my speech was a disaster."

Tyson winced—that sounded pretty plausible.

"And that I'm not looking after my players," Nate continued, scuffing his toe against the rug on the hallway floor. It was gentler on Gabe's dress shoes, at least. "He said I should have taken you aside, you know, after the first, figured out what was going on with you."

"You can talk to me all you want, that's not going to stop Brown going fivehole on me," Tyson pointed out. He knew he was the only one to blame for his shit performance.

"I fucking hate that guy," Nate said, and for a moment he sounded so much like Gabe that Tyson had to suppress a laugh. But then Nate shook his head, looking anguished. "What the hell am I going to tell Gabe? I trashed his captaincy in forty-eight hours."

"No, Nate. You didn't trash it. You couldn't." Tyson patted him on the shoulder, but, alarmingly, Nate's lip was shaking and his eyes were wet. At this point, there was nothing Tyson could do but throw his arms around him. "Hey, come here."

Nate didn't cry much. Tyson hadn't seen him cry since they'd lost at Worlds the year before, and that had been aggravated by Nate almost killing him via wrestling mishap. But now he was sniffling wetly into Tyson's shoulder. Tyson pretended it wasn't Gabe's shoulders he had his arms around, Gabe's hair brushing softly against his cheek. Nate needed him. His issues with Gabe could wait. All Tyson had to do was stroke Nate's back in soothing half-circles until Nate was breathing steadily again.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Nate said, muffled into Tyson's shoulder.

Tyson sighed. "You just want to cuddle."

"Not if you're going to be a dick about it."

Nothing would bring Tyson less joy than letting a Gabe-shaped Nate into his bed, but he was a good friend and Nate needed him. "Sorry. Of course you can."

They didn't do this much anymore. They had done it often, as rookies without homes or beds of their own, mostly on the road, but at least once a year Nate would ask and Tyson always said yes. Sometimes it was just a matter of convenience—Tyson had a guest room but he never remembered to put sheets on the bed. Mostly, they did it because it was fun to do something they'd done when they were younger, when the league was terrifying and they'd known, instinctively, that it was safe to cling to one another.

Also, Nate just liked cuddling. He was weird about admitting it, but it was the truth.

Tyson turned on the light, illuminating his bedroom. It was nearly tidy, minus a few discarded items of clothing and the rumpled bedcovers. Nate didn't seem to care, though; he started stripping down to his boxers while Tyson went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Sighing, Tyson turned the overhead lights off and tossed his suit onto a chair. Nate, already tucked under the blankets, gave him a look that probably meant _those will wrinkle_, but he said nothing. Good. Tyson wasn't thrilled about the visual, the blond hair and Gabe's handsome, beloved face resting against one of his pillows. Nate was smart not to antagonize him when Tyson's sanity was already on thin fucking ice.

He turned off the lamp. Nate sighed as Tyson slid under the covers and threw his arms around him. It was so deeply, utterly strange for Tyson to be spooning Gabe, but Nate relaxed into Tyson's arms. Tyson could even feel his breathing steady out.

He shook his head. "This is bizarre."

"Don't tell me you've never cuddled Gabe."

"No, we have," Tyson admitted. They were both needy after sex. "Just, he's usually the big spoon."

Nate snorted. "If you pop a boner, I'm gonna rip your dick off."

"Shut the fuck up," Tyson said, pinching the back of Nate's hand, "You're _Nate_, you're not sexy to me. You're the opposite of sexy. You're like my brother." There was absolutely no sexual tension between him and a Gabe-shaped-Nate. Even if Nate was absolutely silent and didn't ruin it with his dumb Nova Scotian accent, it was obvious to Tyson. Nate just didn't act like Gabe.

Case in point: Gabe had never slept in Tyson's bed.

Nate made another derisive noise through his nose. Tyson knew that Nate was objectively good-looking, now that he'd sorted out his hair and his beard, but Tyson didn't look. He couldn't imagine finding Nate sexy in any way.

Speaking of which. "Hey, unrelated," Tyson said, hoping he sounded casual, "Did Gabe get your permission to jerk off while he's in your body?"

Nate groaned into the pillows. "Yeah. Worst fucking conversation of my life. But hey," he said, suddenly serious, turning his head to send Tyson what must have been a glare, although who could tell in the dark, "That doesn't cover sex, okay? I know he's horny every moment of his life, but the two of you can wait."

He wanted to laugh, but he didn't. Instead he patted Nate's arm gently until he settled back down on his side. "I promise you, you don't need to worry about that."

Maybe Tyson would never hook up with Gabe again. It was looking likelier since they were no closer to reversing the bodyswap, but surely Tyson _shouldn't_ hook up with Gabe. If they didn't make the playoffs, Tyson was pretty sure they never would again. Another early end to the season and Sakic might accelerate their rebuilding process and sell off older defensemen with terrible plus/minus stats. Even if he didn't, Tyson really needed to start minimizing the inevitable fallout when Gabe told him to quit coming around. It would hurt, but it would hurt more if he didn't prepare himself for it.

"Tyson," Nate said, in that same soft tone he'd used on the staircase, "You want to talk about him?"

Tyson sighed. "Not really." Talking about Gabe while spooning Gabe's body was a level of weird he didn't need in his life.

"Okay. But we can, you know?"

"I know, Nate," Tyson said. "I'll keep it in mind."

April 3, 2018  
Nate woke Tyson up somewhere around dawn, already showered and dressed, and told him to get in the fucking car. Tyson had done so—Nate was ready to go, and once Tyson woke up he couldn't fall back asleep. For his troubles, Tyson got to sit in the passenger seat and enjoy the spectacle of Nate completely fumbling Gabe's manual transmission three times on the way out of the neighborhood. "You good, Dogg?" he asked as Nate swore a blue streak and nearly stalled the engine out at a red light. "I thought you knew how to drive stick."

"You shut up," Nate snarled, "Or I'm not buying you coffee."

The problem with having sleepovers with Nate, even while in Gabe's body, was that Nate still liked to get to practice insufferably early. Nate regularly showed up at the rink before the culinary staff had started serving coffee. Tyson didn't mind being dragged along—God knew he could use some extra work after his showing last night—but he drew the line at going in without caffeine.

Armed with drive-through coffee, he and Nate parked next to Nate's own car, the only other vehicle in the player's section of the lot. Gabe was just getting his gear out of the back of the car, and he waved as Nate pulled in. And then he frowned.

"You destroying my engine, Mackinnon?" he said, as Nate and Tyson opened their doors.

"Nah, just your transmission," Tyson said. Gabe jerked his head to look at him, but Tyson kept his head ducked as he unloaded their bags from the trunk, unwilling to meet Gabe's eye.

"How are you doing?" Gabe asked Nate privately as he got out of the car, voice low and sympathetic. Tyson couldn't get over how weird it was to see Gabe contort Nate's face into that sympathetic, understanding look.

"Uh, fine," Nate said. "What about you?"

Gabe made a sad noise in his throat. "Zoey doesn't like me right now. I guess she knows something's wrong." Tyson felt a horrible, unwelcome pang in his chest at the image; he had to slam the trunk shut to jolt himself out of it.

They walked in together, nodding their heads at the security guards and the custodians who greeted them. No one found it unusual to see Nate's face haunting the practice complex this early in the morning, but some of the early morning crew did a double-take upon seeing "Gabe." Tyson sympathized—some mornings he rolled over and couldn't believe Gabe looked that hot, even at dawn, even up close. And he'd had most of a season to get used to it.

"So," Nate said, as they passed into the team-only part of the rink, safe from eavesdroppers, "We didn't swap back yet."

"Seems like it," Gabe said, just as grim. Tyson was walking just behind Nate, angled in such a way that Nate's head blocked Gabe's at all times. It reminded him of being an awkward preteen, sneaking around his childhood home, hoping that if his dad never spotted him he wouldn't make a joke at Tyson's expense. Tyson didn't really think Gabe was going to make fun of him, but he still felt the need to present the smallest possible target. "Maybe we need to meet up again, keep working on solutions."

"Maybe tonight?"

"Tonight works," Gabe said. "You can come to my place."

The invitation didn't seem to cover Tyson, and Tyson didn't object; he wanted to veg out in his underwear tonight, not do paranormal research in Gabe's living room. He didn't go over to Gabe's except for sex—he couldn't afford to blur that line. Besides, they had a flight to San Jose tomorrow, and he'd be obligated to see Gabe constantly on the road. He had no desire to press the issue. Instead, he headed to his own stall in the change room and got dressed for skate.

Nate and Gabe weren't as practiced at dressing their borrowed bodies, so Tyson beat them onto the ice and enjoyed a few minutes of glorious silence. The practice rink was completely empty and the sound of his skates carving into the ice echoed in the open air. Sliding to a stop at the far end of the rink, he could just make out the low hum of the fluorescent lighting.

There was a certain appeal to getting here so unfuckingbelievably early. Tyson could see the charm. He didn't think he'd be racing Nate for the honor of being the first to arrive too often, but it was nice.

Nate stepped onto the ice, Gabe behind him, and without discussing it, they met at center ice. "I don't think I've ever heard it this quiet," Gabe said, as he looked around.

"I know," Nate said happily. "It's good, right?"

Tyson met Gabe's eyes, albeit unwillingly—Nate was always so _Nate_. For a half second they smiled at each other, then Tyson's face grew hot and he looked away.

"So," Nate said. He hadn't noticed. He was keyed into Tyson enough that he'd offered, _again_, to talk about Gabe as they brushed their teeth side by side, but he had completely missed the small moment of tension between the two of them. "What are we doing?"

"You tell us," Gabe said.

Nate blinked at him. "Me? Why?"

"You're the best at hockey, Nate," Gabe said. "If anyone can fix our game, it's you." He shifted his weight on his skates and gave Tyson a pointed look. Not that Tyson needed to be told to voice his own support, but Nate swelled with pride anyway.

"I don't think it's something we can fix. I think we just need to practice. We're pretty good at hockey. We just need to play through it."

Gabe nodded, perfectly confident in Nate's suggestion. "Okay, Nate. I trust you."

Tyson glided in lazy circles while Nate led Gabe through the same few drills over and over again. They kept meeting, heads bent together, while Nate outlined something that he was seeing—some way that Gabe could more convincingly impersonate him, or maybe just something that would improve his overall game. Every so often they needed a defenseman, and Tyson would assist. Mostly, they were just talking: talking about the advantages of certain releases, talking as they set up a hypothetical power play, talking about every thing under the sun.

They looked better. More confident—less antsy when something went wrong. Tyson thought Nate was probably correct: their bodies knew how to play hockey. If they could just tap into that knowledge, they might be okay.

They finished up by running Nate's favorite drill: Tyson sending passes to the left face-off circle and Nate shooting one-timers. Except it was Gabe, not Nate, firing off shots, and Nate encouraging him. Gabe's shot was nowhere near as lethal as Nate's, but by the end of the drill, it looked pretty decent. Good enough to fool Martin Jones, anyway.

"Okay," Nate said, when he finally pronounced himself satisfied. "I think that's good for now. We shouldn't push any more than that, 'cause I think Bednar's going to work us over pretty hard."

"Sorry about that again," Tyson said lamely, scrubbing sweat off his forehead with the back of his practice jersey. "Not my finest night."

Nate laughed and clapped Tyson on the shoulder. Tyson, unlike Gabe, was smart enough to know that it was friendly and not a come-on. "Shake it off, Brutes. I'm going to go work on shooting left handed."

Tyson dawdled, waiting until Nate had gone safely out of earshot. He didn't want any witnesses to him saying, "That was nice of you, talking him up like that," to Gabe. Telling Gabe was bad enough; his slow smile, dawning across Nate's face, was sincere and slightly surprised. Tyson hadn't said it to feed Gabe's ego—Gabe knew he was an amazing captain—but because it was true. He didn't think the curse was tied to Gabe's performance as a captain or anything, but Gabe deserved to be reminded how great he was. No matter which body he was in.

He could imagine that smile breaking out across Gabe's real face, and a sudden burst of fondness rang through his chest until it ached.

Instead of answering, Gabe just kept smiling at him. Just as the moment was becoming unbearable and Tyson was about to sprint off the ice, Gabe stopped him. "Hey," he said. He pointed to one of the dozens of pucks that Nate had dumped onto the ice for them to work with. "Keep-away?"

"What, now? You want me to keel over and die during skate?" They hadn't exactly been taking it easy, and Tyson's quads were already screeching. But Gabe's smile turned smug, which looked even less flattering on Nate's blotchy red face than usual.

"I mean," he drawled, "If you're _scared_..."

Tyson knew he was being baited. Unfortunately he was a stupid, stupid man. "Fine," he said, "Starting _now_."

He darted in, batting the puck away from Gabe, sending it spinning out across the ice. Gabe burst out laughing. He tried to sound outraged as he wheeled after Tyson, but his protests were cut off by a flagrantly illegal stick butt to the stomach, courtesy of Tyson. "Fucking cheater," Gabe grunted, as Tyson danced away from him, the puck securely in his control.

It was Tyson's turn to be smug. He fended off a couple of weak attempts, crossed over, and skated backwards almost to the boards. "Don't whine, it's so unbecoming on your giant head."

"I have a regular sized head right now," Gabe said, and then he lunged. He was faster as Nate than he was in his own body, but that harmed him more than helped. He seemed genuinely surprised when his stick blade got tangled with Tyson's skate, and more surprised yet when Tyson slammed him into the boards. It hadn't been intentional—Tyson had lost his balance—but a win was a win.

"Oof," Gabe said, sounding winded. He had Tyson in a bear hug; his stick was in pieces on the ice.

"Pathetic," Tyson said, immensely proud of his victory. He patted Gabe's helmet in satisfaction and made sure to elbow him in the throat as he disentangled himself.

He wasn't a complete monster. He helped Gabe pick up the several pieces of his shattered stick. He even pulled his glove off to get some of the smaller, fiddlier pieces up. "There you go," Tyson said, placing the remnants into Gabe's hands. "Now I'm going to go sit and catch my fucking breath."

"Hey. Tyson," Gabe said. Tyson hadn't gone far, only a stride or two, but Gabe hurried to catch up with him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I was mad and I took it out on you. Last night," he clarified, when Tyson raised an eyebrow.

"Yes you should have. I was being a dick."

"It wasn't your fault. I mean, I know your ego's not so big that you think _you personally_ could cost us a whole game." Gabe smiled as he said that, in a way that he must have thought was winning but just seemed condescending. "But if you were, I'd tell you it wasn't your fault."

Tyson said nothing at first as he sat down on the bench. Gabe sat next to him, the splintered stick still in his hands. "Whose fault was it?"

"All of us, Tyson," Gabe said. He bumped his shoulder into Tyson's companionably, because they were friends. Just friends. "We're a team."

Tyson snorted. "That's such fucking horseshit," he said, and then he busied himself with his water bottle. He knew he hadn't single-handedly caused their defeat, but he also wasn't in midget league; he didn't need Gabe to hold his hand when he played badly. The idea of Gabe feeling sorry for him was more than he could handle on top of every other terrible thing.

Besides, they had precious few minutes before the other guys showed, and Tyson didn't want to get drawn into a conversation about his _feelings_. He wasted their remaining time refilling his water bottle and adjusting his laces, eyes down the whole time, never giving Gabe the opportunity to launch into a pep-talk. Soon enough, the others started to arrive, cheerful chatter ringing through the air, and Gabe's window of opportunity was gone.

When Willy arrived, he immediately skated over to Tyson. "You're here early," he said. He looked calm and well-rested, and his aura of placid chill seemed to extend over anyone close to him. Tyson, as always, felt better just standing in his presence.

"Nate," Tyson said, and Willy nodded. Nate was sufficient reason all in himself. "What's up? You wanna grab lunch after practice?"

"Sure."

"Cool," Tyson said. He was looking forward to having a drama-free, completely normal interaction with another human being. "Oh shit, here comes Coach. See you later."

They got bagskated, just as Tyson predicted, but nowhere near as badly as they could have been. Some coaches liked to pretend that bagskating was just conditioning, but when Bednar used it as a deterrent, he was honest about it. Tyson respected that. Nate respected the hell out of Bednar, and that kind of plain-spokenness was a big reason why. They were definitely heaving for breath after a punishing round of suicides, but the San Jose game was only two days away. Bednar wouldn't push them more than they could handle.

"Gabe looks crazy out there," Sam said, when he and Tyson were waiting around to start a drill. "You see how he tried to race Nate? Like anyone could catch Nate."

Tyson hadn't seen; he'd been busy focusing on not passing out and dying. "Well, he's competitive, you know."

Sam rolled his eyes with far more confidence than any nineteen year old had a right to. Tyson was so tired of playing on a team with baby prodigies; when the hell would EJ be back? "I don't know anybody who's not competitive," Sam said, "But there's competitive, and then there's trying to race Nate."

Tyson couldn't argue that point. Nate forced him to race all the time, and Tyson invariably lost. Of course, Nate was out there racing his own body, which made perfect sense, but he couldn't exactly tell Sam that. Instead, he gave Sam a friendly shove and changed the subject.

Practice went fine. Tyson didn't disgrace himself, and Bednar gave him a nod after weights that Tyson chose to interpret as encouragement. No one seemed eager to fling the loss against the Kings at his feet, for which Tyson was abundantly grateful. The last time they'd gone to the playoffs, they'd cruised all season and won the division; this year, they were hanging onto their dreams by their fingernails. If the team wanted to blame someone, _anyone_, he wouldn't have been shocked.

But that wasn't the kind of team it was. The other defensemen made easy, friendly conversation with Tyson in between drills; Nemo even asked his advice on positioning during faceoffs. By the time they'd finished skating and conditioning, his muscles felt like burning lead, but his mood was nearly optimistic, even happy. A good practice didn't cancel out how shitty he'd played, but it did help.

It also helped that the Blues had lost to the Capitals the night before. As Tyson stumbled to his stall and immediately started divesting himself of his sweaty base layers, he could hear the guys around him discussing the outcome of the game. "Of course the Blues were going to lose to Washington," Siemens said, his voice still distorted by his broken nose. "The Caps have Ovi. Who do the Blues have? Brayden Schenn?"

"Hey," Tyson said, on Brayden's behalf.

"Sorry," Siemens said, shrugging. "But the Blues were never going to win against the Caps. But they have a home-and-home against the Blackhawks, and that could go either way."

Tyson processed that as he ran a hand through his wet hair. They'd knocked Chicago out of the playoff race just days ago, the night he'd racked up three points, the night Gabe had been so happy.

"The Hawks have nothing to fight for," said Barbs, "They might not try very hard."

"Toews will still want to win," Z said doubtfully.

"He's just one guy," Siemens insisted. He looked very sure of himself, despite his badly broken nose and the fact that he was mostly naked; Tyson liked the guy just fine but right now he would have paid him to shut up. "The Blues are going to want it. A lot."

Adequately freaked out, Tyson threw his gross workout clothes into his stall and stalked off to the showers. Siemens and the other defensemen didn't seem to notice him leaving.

Nate gave Tyson a strange look when they passed each other going into the showers. Tyson knew he probably looked green around the gills, but he didn't want to get into it with Nate. Nate's method of dealing with hockey stress was to throw himself into conditioning; if Tyson tried that, his thighs would liquefy and he'd die. Instead of engaging with Nate, Tyson turned his back on him. It was easy enough to justify it to himself—Nate had the water temperature turned up so high he had created a one-man sauna, clouds of billowing steam wafting up from the tiles and obscuring him from view. It would have been worth commenting on from anyone, but from Gabe, it was legendarily weird. Tyson had tried to tell Nate this, that acting like a reptile while possessing Gabe's body was dumb, but Nate hadn't listened.

Whatever. Tyson's stomach was a jittery ball of nerves _without_ worrying about Nate's spycraft. The Avalanche were a weird team, but no one had yet stooped to commenting on how a man liked to take a shower.

By the time Tyson came out, the playoffs conversation had finally broken up and he could get dressed in peace. Fully clothed once more, he came over and plopped himself down in Willy's stall. Willy, sweet, beloved Willy, who never did anything extraordinary, smiled at him. "Hello, Tyson," he said, as he combed his hair.

"Let's go eat," Tyson said without preamble. Willy's smile grew.

"Can I put pants on first?"

"If you _insist_," Tyson said, rolling his eyes. He picked up Willy's toiletry bag and started going through it. There were three different kinds of lotion in there. "I mean, why deprive the people of what they want? But sure, if you want to be all prudish about it."

"I don't think the people want my ghostly white thighs," Willy said. He gently took his bag from Tyson so that he could rub some product into his hair. Tyson, whose hair always looked ridiculous no matter what he did to it, seethed with jealousy. "But sure, let's go."

Tyson extended a pro forma invitation to "Nate," but Gabe declined, an oddly sour expression on his face. The real Nate was over talking to one of the equipment guys, one of Gabe's sticks in his hand and his brow lowered. That was probably what had Gabe so worked up—Nate liked to have every aspect of his game just so, but if he messed with Gabe's sticks, Gabe was likely to murder him.

Either way, Tyson was relieved. Willy put his pants on and threw his arm around Tyson's shoulders, and the two of them walked out of the locker room, into the long hallway that led to the player's lot. "Where do you want to go to lunch?" Willy asked as they walked.

"You choose," Tyson said, shrugging. "Unless you want to go through the drive-through somewhere so I don't even have to walk from my car to the restaurant? 'Cause I'd be down with that."

They had almost made it—Tyson could see the open doorway, the fresh spring air beckoning him out into the sunlight—when he heard the tell-tale click of EJ's crutches. "Tyson!" called EJ's unwanted voice from down the hallway, making both Tyson and Willy turn around. "Hey, wait up a minute!"

Amused, Tyson stayed right where he was and made EJ come to him. It was good for EJ to get exercise, despite his injury, and the crotchety expression on his face was really just icing on the cake. Red-faced and scowling, EJ came to a halt and pointed a crutch at Tyson. Menacingly. "You ready to talk now?"

"About what?" Tyson said, just as he remembered that EJ had tried to corner him in the parking lot last night. His smile slipped, and when he tried to paste it back on again, his mouth felt like it was full of cement. It couldn't possibly look convincing.

"Why," EJ said, "Do you insist on trying to ruin the surprise?"

Tyson had never been so glad in his life to have an excuse ready-made. "I'm going to lunch, EJ. With Willy," he said, nodding at Willy, who waved cheerfully. "Do you want to come to lunch with us?"

"No, I don't want to come to lunch with you two." Tyson had known that that was what he would say, but nevertheless, relief flooded through him. "If I wanted to listen to people talk about music I don't care about," EJ continued, eyes narrowed, "I'd put on MTV."

"That's a dated reference, EJ. Get with the fucking times. We'll talk tomorrow," Tyson bluffed. He could definitely figure out a way to put EJ off before tomorrow.

EJ's sucked his top lip into his mouth, and it bowed in over the empty space where his front teeth should be. "Alright, but I mean it, Tyson. You can't put me off forever."

That was true, Tyson reflected as they walked out to Willy's car in the blinding sunshine, but Tyson didn't have to avoid EJ forever. Once they got Nate and Gabe back to their right bodies, there'd be no reason to fear EJ's laser-focused, penetrating gaze. After all, there was no way EJ suspected about Tyson's ill-advised crush on Gabe, and once the bodyswap was fixed, no one would ever believe it had really happened.

And if they couldn't unswap Gabe and Nate?

It was best, Tyson decided, not to think about that.

+++

Forty-five minutes later, Tyson found his mouth opening before he knew what words were going to come out of it. "Hey Willy," he said, surprising himself. Willy at that moment had a mouthful of noodles, but he raised his eyebrows as if to say, _go on_. Tyson's heart was jack-hammering in his chest. "You're like, spiritual and shit."

Laughing, Willy put down his chopsticks. "Spiritual and shit? Well, I like to think of it as being in tune with the world around me, and actually paying attention to the universe, but sure. I'm spiritual and shit."

They had _not_ gone to a drive-through. Instead, they were dining at a funky little ramen shop downtown, which was essentially empty despite it being early afternoon; the other patrons, mostly business-types having late lunches, were completely ignoring them. They'd run through their usual topics as they ate: the season, new playlists, their parents, what they were watching on TV, and exciting ways to cook fish and red meat. But there had been a moment of silence and Tyson had seized it.

He hadn't planned on asking. But Willy _was_ spiritual, or at least New Age-y in a way that Tyson normally dismissed but was currently willing to investigate. And the clock on their season was ticking, and nothing else had worked.

"Do you know anything about people switching bodies?" Tyson asked.

"Like Freaky Friday?"

"Sure," Tyson said. It had been his first thought, too. "Or maybe like, I don't know. Would it be possible for somebody to be somebody else? Even just for a little while?"

To his credit, Willy seemed to be actually pondering; he sat back in his chair, his ramen abandoned, arms crossed and staring at the ceiling as he thought it over. "I don't know," he said. "Some people theorize that you can move your consciousness outside your physical being, connect with a presence that's larger than yourself. But I don't think you can switch bodies with your mom, if that's what you're asking."

"Why not?" Tyson said, half-joking. "My mom's really cool."

"Do you want me to send you some links?" Willy said. "I've got some really cool articles about opening your mind up to higher realities," he continued, sounding eager.

Despite his current crisis, Tyson had no desire to spend the rest of the season discussing astral projection or the fundamental truth of all religions, or any of the other more woo shit that Willy was into. "No," he said, "That's okay."

It had been a long shot. Why would Willy know how to fix the bodyswap? Willy liked to read some esoteric books, but he wasn't _actually_ a witch. They were just as stuck as they'd been ever since Nate had woken up in Tyson's hotel room, consciousness _definitely_ outside his physical being.

At the other end of the table, Willy made a strange sound in his throat; Tyson, who'd been playing with the chopsticks he hadn't used, looked up. There was a line between Willy's eyebrows, a slight frown that looked out of place on Willy's normally cheerful face. "Tyson," he said, talking slowly, as if considering each word, "Are you... are you okay, man?"

"Me?" Tyson put down the chopsticks in surprise. EJ trying to interrogate him, he understood—the man was bored, and nosy. But _Willy_? "I'm great. Why?"

"I don't know," Willy said. The frown hadn't gone away. If anything, it seemed deeper, more pronounced. "You've seemed kind of down these last few weeks. And I know you don't like talking about playoffs, but you've seemed extra stressed the last few days."

There was no good response to that. Tyson stalled, dragging his spoon through the dregs of broth in the bottom of his bowl, looking for something to say that wouldn't incriminate Nate or Gabe, or his traitorous heart. "Well, it's not like it was in Nashville," he said. "We've only made it once, my whole career. It should have been more than that, with Nate on our team, and he's working so hard, and so is Gabe. I don't know. We're all stressed."

That was true enough, and Willy nodded; he knew how it was for the club. It _wasn't_ like Nashville, and besides, he hadn't been here the year before, the hell year, when their greatest achievement had been that the fans hadn't actively run them out of town. If Tyson had extra on his mind, so what? Who wouldn't be stressed, trying to eke out a playoff berth with two games to go?

"Okay," Willy said. He picked up his spoon again but maintained eye contact, looking like he was trying to pour sympathy and understanding into Tyson's soul. "Because, you know, you're one of my closest friends, and if you ever want to talk about anything, I'm a good listener. About anything. The team, playoffs, anything..."

Tyson laughed. Willy was as transparent as glass; he probably thought Tyson was worried that he'd be traded over the summer. Tyson was _always_ worried about that, but at the moment, the thought was almost quaint. "I know, Willy. You're a fucking awesome listener. Let's go get dessert, okay? I feel like I earned it after that bagskate."

Four hours later, he drove home, belly full of gelato and spirits considerably lighter. Willy had insisted on "earning" dessert, which meant window-shopping up and down some of the artsier streets up by Union Station, but Tyson didn't mind. The afternoon had been a much needed reprieve. He'd bought an early birthday present for his sister and had mostly been able to keep Nate and Gabe off his mind.

And shopping had been fun. Willy was good company, and Tyson enjoyed exploring that part of the city, a part he rarely visited. In the very near future, when they solved the bodyswap and he'd gotten over Gabe, it would be nice to revisit the arts district with a date. They had stopped in at dozens of little boutiques and cutesy stores, and Tyson had had to talk himself out of buying a bright yellow accent chair from one of them. He'd had no particular reason to want it, but the buttery yellow and plush upholstery had called out to him. Gabe would hate it—Gabe's apartment was all neutrals and tasteful modern pieces—but who cared what Gabe thought?

It wasn't like he ever invited Gabe over, let alone to critique his decorating.

Tyson locked the door behind him and surveyed his domain. He'd used a decorator, like every other busy, fairly wealthy person he knew, but he liked his house: it was warm and lived-in, and the furniture wasn't any particular style but it was good to sit on. Settling into the wide, comfy couch, he put his feet up on the table—you couldn't do that at Gabe's place. Gabe kept his apartment neat as a pin, and if Tyson left so much as a sweater in the living room while they were making out, Gabe would fold it and press it into his hands at the door come the morning. "Don't forget this," he'd say, looking grumpy, and Tyson would curse himself for forgetting where the lines were.

Gabe made it really hard to remember where the lines were. That was the most infuriating part of being in love with him, while also keeping things strictly casual. Tyson had seen him date people before, so he knew that Gabe was an attentive, loving boyfriend. Gabe remembered birthdays, and kept his word, and called on road trips, no matter how long or short their trip away. And he didn't seem to care if the people he _actually_ dated left sweaters behind. There were even moments when he seemed to look at _Tyson_ like he'd hung the stars, random stray instances where Tyson could fool himself into thinking that there was real affection in Gabe's eyes; then they'd go back to being friends from work who hooked up sometimes.

Also, he was phenomenal at sex. Tyson thought that was fucking cheating—hot guys, in his experience, were usually middling to crap in bed, but Gabe was as talented as he was handsome. The sole drawback was that Gabe was always, _always_ up for sex. Even on the road. Tyson had been mortified the first time they'd had sex on a road trip and hadn't spoken to Gabe for three days in his embarrassment. But as time passed, no one made any sly remarks about it, and the guys just didn't have that kind of restraint; they were oblivious. Tyson's scruples had more or less gone out the window after that.

It was just too easy to fall for Gabe. Nothing, not even Gabe's recent obvious irritation with him, had stopped Tyson's idiot heart from wanting him. The fact that Gabe had taken up residence in Nate's body had dampened Tyson's sex drive, but it hadn't changed his feelings.

Humiliated, Tyson flopped backwards into the couch cushions and covered his eyes. He could level with himself: he knew he wasn't going to get over Gabe. His contract with the Avs would be up long before he ever got the chance to take some non-Gabe person shopping.

"Stupid fucking Gabriel Landeskog," he said aloud, to no one. "Stupid fucking Tyson Barrie, too."

He didn't wallow. He'd used up all his allotted wallowing time after the Kings game—the only thing to do now was to push past it. So instead of lying on the couch and ordering in Postmates, he got up and cooked dinner. He used a convoluted recipe that kept his hands busy and his mind engrossed, and he blasted one of Willy's new playlists at top volume. It didn't quite stop him thinking about Gabe, but it helped.

When his phone rang, right as he was dividing leftover roasted vegetables into Tupperware for later in the week, he was just distracted enough that he saw the name "Nate" appear on his phone and answered without thinking. Right as Gabe said, "Hi Tyson," Tyson remembered who he was actually speaking to and nearly overturned the tray of asparagus onto the floor.

"Fuck," he said. He'd had to jam his shoulder up to his ear to keep the phone from slipping, hands still full of the asparagus tray, and thus he only barely heard Gabe laughing at him. "Hi Gabe."

"Hey Tyson. Where are you?"

"In my kitchen, just cleaning up." He juggled the tray and managed to keep almost all the asparagus from sliding off; a few stalks plopped wetly on the tile, and one landed on his socked foot. Even talking to Gabe was now reducing him to incompetence. "From dinner. Why? Where are _you?_"

"I'm at Nate's. We switched houses. I don't know, I thought it was a good idea, it'll be less suspicious if somebody comes over unexpectedly, but I forgot how ugly Nate's place is." Gabe sighed, sounding piteous. Nate's place wasn't ugly so much as underfurnished—the less Nate bought, the less he had to clean.

"Okay, sure," Tyson said. "What's up?"

"Does something have to be up for me to call you?"

Tyson scowled, at him, at the asparagus, at the universe. "Usually, yes."

"Well," Gabe said theatrically, "How about the fact that I'm still in Nate's body, and we didn't come any closer to finding the solution to that problem? And we spent an hour reading a website about black magic curses, too, so the team's still screwed but I know the difference between black and white magic."

Tyson didn't know what to say. He'd forgotten that the purpose of Nate and Gabe getting together tonight had been another round of paranormal research. Clearly, hanging out with Willy had been too distracting.

"That sucks," Tyson said. "How's Nate taking it?"

Gabe exhaled, a sharp sound through his teeth. "He's frustrated. Don't you want to know how_ I'm _taking it?"

Tyson didn't answer until he'd gotten the last Tupperware lid securely on and the leftovers stowed in the fridge. "I didn't know you wanted me worrying about you. I thought that would probably be annoying."

"Do you want Nate instead of me?" Gabe demanded.

"What the fuck?" Tyson repeated that a few times, enough that Gabe told him to knock it off, but he couldn't help it. It was the weirdest question Gabe had ever asked, bar none. "Do I _want_ Nate? Like, want him? Why the fuck would I want to have sex with Nate? Have you ever seen him lose at Fortnite? Or pick his teeth with a piece of paper? Or when he's sick and he's a huge dramatic baby and his Mom has to fly in from Halifax and make him soup? Also, do you remember that he almost _killed_ me?"

"Okay, fine," Gabe said. He seemed thoroughly irritated at Tyson's response, which was rich of him, considering the question. "I just thought, maybe that's why this happened. Maybe this is the universe telling you and Nate something, okay?"

Tyson wanted to scream, or maybe lie down on the tile floor among the asparagus. "Gabe, listen to me," he said firmly, holding his phone so tightly his knuckles hurt, "The universe did not _bodyswap_ you so that I could get with Nate. I'm not that fucking special, okay? And even if the idea of having sex with Nate wasn't fucking repulsive to me, Nate's not that hot."

"I'm hotter." Gabe was still sulking, but he sounded pleased, too. Gabe liked being told he was hot. Hot people always did. Tyson closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Yeah, buddy. You are," he said.

"Then why did this happen?"

"I don't know. So Nate could be the first Hall of Famer to score points in two different bodies?"

That made Gabe laugh. He must have been in bed; Tyson heard his mattress creaking as he moved around. "That we know of, anyway."

"I don't want Nate," Tyson said. "Jesus Christ, Gabe, you're the only person I want to be with."

The sentence hung in the air, suspended between the phone lines, as if Tyson had said it and then closed captioning had appeared on the fabric of reality, preserving the idiotic words he'd just said. It was a mortifyingly unsubtle thing to say to a hookup. Gabe, who must have been shocked, said nothing. Tyson's heart threatened to crawl up his throat and ooze out of his mouth.

"You know what I mean," he said lamely, as if that could salvage it.

"I do?" Gabe said.

"I mean... Yeah. You're hot, and I have low standards," Tyson said. "And it's always good with you."

There was another horribly long pause, but when Gabe spoke again, his voice was low and sultry. "I wish I was with you right now."

"No," Tyson said immediately. On the one hand, he was offended, but mostly he was glad to have the subject change so drastically. Another part of him was comforted, in an awful way, to know that Gabe had just called because he was horny. What other reason would he have had to call? "No fucking way. We are not having phone sex when you sound like _Nate_."

"Come on, Tyson. I miss you," Gabe said, in Nate's voice. He didn't sound like the real Nate, who had never been this smooth in his entire life, but he sounded _enough_ like Nate to ruin it for Tyson.

"Tough shit. Go jerk off alone. You have permission."

"Of course I asked permission," Gabe said. He was _definitely_ in bed; Tyson could hear the whisper of his sheets rustling against each other. Some traitorous part of his lizard brain responded, if only barely. It was _Gabe_, and he was in bed. Tyson wasn't made of stone. "C'mon, Tys, it's been _days_."

"It was _yesterday!_"

"That doesn't count," Gabe said loftily, even though it very much did count.

"I would rather never have sex again than listen to you talk about my dick in Nate's voice." Tyson meant it, too.

"So you're saying I should text you?"

Tyson hesitated, even though his first instinct was to say no. Texting _might_ work. He didn't have Gabe's unquenchable constant sex drive, but he was twenty-six and in possession of a reasonably active libido. He and Gabe had sexted before, over Christmas and then the All-Star Break, when they'd been apart and horny. Gabe had Nate's permission to jerk off, and Nate never had to know. As long as Tyson didn't think too hard about it, it was, on the whole, a not terrible solution.

"You're on Nate's phone," he protested, even as his resolve faltered.

"I'll log into WhatsApp," Gabe said. "Or I'll delete the messages, whatever you want."

"Fine. But no photos, or I'll kill you before Nate gets the chance to."

"But you can send _me_ photos, yeah?"

Tyson's face _flamed_. "Don't push your fucking luck," he said, and hung up before he could lose his nerve.

Who the fuck was Gabe kidding? Tyson threw the rest of the dishes in the dishwasher and tried not to catch sight of his bright-red face reflected in the kitchen windows. He knew that their relationship was 100% based on convenience, so where did Gabe get off acting hopeful that Tyson would send him nudes? He always refused when Gabe asked, partly because he just wasn't that exciting to look at, but mostly because as soon as the novelty wore off Gabe would be out the door. That hadn't stopped Gabe from trying, but that said more about Gabe's stubbornness than anything appealing about Tyson.

He went upstairs with as much dignity as possible. Slipping off his shirt, he left his pants on. Gabe sent him four messages in the short time it took for him to get upstairs and lie down on the bed.

_Someday I'll get you to send photos_

_Wait should I get on WhatsApp instead?_

_Tyson?_

The last one was a WhatsApp message._ Hurry up!_

Tyson was going to kill him. Or he was going to die of embarrassment first. He hadn't felt this nervous the first time they had sex, eight months ago, in Gabe's condo after that preseason win. They'd both been drunk, though, which had helped. He didn't have that excuse now. He also had several months of unreciprocated love built up inside of him; that alone was enough to make his hands shake as he typed.

_why are you always so impatient bro_, he sent back.

_Don't call me bro. Jesus Tyson. Are you naked?_

Straight to the point. Tyson wiggled out of his sweats, boxers shoved down just past his knees. _yeah._

_Touch yourself._

The lackluster instruction made the knot in his stomach unfurl. Gabe didn't dirty talk much. Tyson was definitely the talker in bed, although he tended to just say whatever he was thinking as opposed to trying to be sexy. It usually made Gabe laugh. _ay ay captain I'm doing that_, he sent, as he wrapped a loose fist around his dick. He amused himself by thinking of Gabe's expression when he read that message.

_Don't be cute. Get yourself off._

While Tyson was frowning at that message—what exactly did Gabe think he was doing, if not getting himself off?—another message came through. _Been thinking about you for days. I miss your mouth._

Tyson's stomach clenched, and he dug his heels into the mattress to ground himself. He knew Gabe liked his mouth. He liked blowing Gabe; he liked that Gabe could make him do what he wanted but wouldn't, that he deliberately gave up control to Tyson.

_yeah?_ he wrote back. He was starting to get into it. He found a rhythm and pictured Gabe, the real Gabe, sitting on his bed while Tyson knelt between his legs. Heat curled through his gut at the image.

_Wish I was there with you_, Gabe replied. _Love the way you look up at me when you get on your knees._

_i can't help it. you're hot._

Tyson didn't know what else to say. He spent a lot of time in bed staring at Gabe, wondering how he was real. Sometimes, when he was blowing Gabe, Gabe would bite his lip until it was white and bloodless, like the effort of keeping still and letting Tyson have his way was almost more than he could handle. Tyson always felt dizzy with pride when that happened. He tried to let that feeling suffuse him as he worked himself over, speeding up as he reminisced.

_I'm taking it slow. Thinking about that time you came over after the Edmonton game and how good it was._

Tyson groaned. It took him a long minute before he could pick up his phone and respond. _that was a good night. you looked so hot on my dick._

_I get it, Tyson, I'm hot_, Gabe sent back.

_not my fault. you know you're a weapon. the way you look when you ride me, what can I say._

Gabe had basically attacked him in the elevator and had almost had his pants off before they made it into the condo. He hadn't known why; they'd played a respectable game against Edmonton, nothing special, and Tyson looked like he always did. But Gabe had been crazy for him, and had climbed into Tyson's lap on his minimalist leather sofa and pinned his hands above his head. He'd ridden him long and slow until Tyson's own thighs ached in sympathy, and when Tyson was boneless in the afterglow, he'd come all over Tyson's chest.

He'd looked so good. He always looked good. He was so hot, and so demanding, and he was always good to Tyson. Tyson kicked his boxers all the way off, his skin hot and his whole body unsettled. He wished he had both hands free, to play with his balls while he pictured Gabe bouncing on his dick, but he made do with one. Really, he wished Gabe was there, holding him down and grounding him, making him take it. His phone buzzed again.

_You thinking of me riding you now?_

_sure am._

_You are unbelievable._

_your ass is unbelievable._

_Yeah it is,_ Gabe said, as if Tyson weren't pathetic at sexting. _If I was there, I'd make you watch me open myself up and I'd ride you until you can't think straight._

Tyson's mouth was dry. His quads and lower back were growing tight as he got close, picturing Gabe, so bossy and devastatingly hot, kneeling over him and fingering himself. He liked to do it himself, not to make Tyson watch but because he was impatient. The idea of him drawing it out, making Tyson suffer, was enough to light him on fire.

Before he could type out some terrible reply, Gabe sent another message. _Wouldn't let you come til I do. I want to see your face when you come inside me._

That was it for Tyson. He tightened his hand and in three quick strokes it was over, coming all over his stomach and hand.

He came down slowly, skin still prickling, his whole body melting into the bed. He'd dropped his phone as he came. Moving as little as possible, he retrieved it. _fuck, Gabe_, he replied.

Gabe's reply was immediate. _Are you close?_

The orgasm had shook loose some rogue bit of bravery—that or stupidity. Before he had time to reconsider, he took a picture of his face and chest and sent it to Gabe. It was desperately incriminating: his mouth was open, his eyes half-lidded, his chest shiny and wet. Instant regret flooded him as soon as he clicked _send_, but it was too late. Fuck. He flung the phone at the foot of the bed and pulled a pillow over his face.

The vibration of an incoming text reverberated from somewhere near his ankle. Tyson's resolve was as weak as his self-preservation. Cursing himself, he sat up and fished his phone out from the wadded-up blankets.

_TYSON_, Gabe had written.

Tyson's face was burning, again. That was probably good?

_I can't believe you._

Maybe bad?

_God, you're incredible. You're the only person I want too._

His breath caught in his chest. What the hell did that mean? Gabe wouldn't joke about something like that—if he'd interpreted it correctly. Would he have understood what Tyson meant? Or was it just a badly-phrased compliment? Or was he just being nice?

As always after he got off, Tyson was minutes away from passing out, even though he was still frantically thinking about Gabe. He scrubbed the come off his chest with his discarded sweats while he tried to put his mind in order. It _had_ to be a joke.

_you better fucking delete that picture landy. talk to you tomorrow_, he sent, knowing full well how stupid that sounded.

Gabe's response came a few minutes later, as he was brushing his teeth with his home toothbrush in the bathroom. _Good night Tyson_, he wrote.

A horrible thought occurred to him as he stood there, mouth full of minty foam, Gabe's words glinting at him in the low light. Gabe had thought the curse had something to do with Nate and Tyson, which was ludicrous, but what if he hadn't been completely wrong? What if it had something to do with Tyson and _Gabe?_

Curses couldn't work like that. People wouldn't get bodyswapped to make random other people get over their inconvenient feelings. The universe couldn't be that lawless and cruel.

Could it?

Tyson spat into the sink. His reflection answered none of his questions. If Nate and Gabe had been cursed to make him fall out of love with Gabe, they might be doomed. Their season certainly was.

It was too late to sort this out now. Tyson was exhausted, his thoughts weren't making any sense. He turned off the lights and crawled into bed. He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.

April 4, 2018  
Tyson woke with a positive feeling. Today would be the day. They'd figure out the _real_ reason for the bodyswap, preferably before they left for California, and he'd politely end things with Gabe as soon as he was back in the right body. He had no idea why he felt so certain. The last time he'd woken up to such strong emotions, Nate and Gabe had swapped bodies. He tried not to take that as an omen as he crammed peanut butter toast in his mouth and skidded out the door.

It was an off-ice day, but they were due at the rink every day. They had tape review for the Sharks game, as well as conditioning. And of course, he had promised EJ they could talk. He still had an inauspicious feeling about that conversation, too, but maybe, with a positive attitude, Tyson could avoid spilling his guts about the bodyswap. Injured or no, EJ was still the fine master, as well as a persistent little fucker. If Tyson _had_ to talk to him, maybe he'd find a way be chill for once in his goddamn life.

Nate was already at the practice facility. He was out on the ice, cheeks flushed with exertion, taking shots. Gabe was also there, doing the same thing, because he was pretending to be Nate. Tyson didn't bother suiting up, but he met Nate at the boards. "Morning," Tyson said, handing him a cardboard cup of coffee. Gabe was still down the ice, taking shots at an empty net; Tyson prayed he stayed there. He couldn't bear facing Gabe so soon after sending him that stupid picture. "How was the research meeting last night?"

"Shit," Nate said in Gabe's gruff early morning voice. "Gabe got really into this website about white magic, which totally isn't real, but he made me try a spell. It didn't work. He's still me."

Tyson tried not to smile at the mention of white magic. He would not be telling Nate about his and Gabe's conversation last night under any circumstances. "Sorry, man. I'm having lunch with EJ, I think he wants to yell at me about how shitty I've been playing, but you should come over when we get to San Jose."

"What about Gabe?"

"Gabe can come too," Tyson said, although he didn't want Gabe to come over. He wanted Gabe to stay far, far away. At least he'd have Nate as a buffer. "We've got two games left. We've got to solve it soon, right?"

"Yeah," Nate said, but his expression drooped. Tyson could tell what he was thinking, but he was full of conviction this morning. Logic would not stand in his way.

"Cheer up, Dogg," he said, patting Nate on one broad shoulder. "I'll save you a spot for tape review. If anyone asks, we'll tell them I'm mad at Gabe. Well, we'll say I'm mad at you, but it'll really be Gabe."

Nate rolled his eyes, but he looked marginally more cheerful as he wheeled off across the ice.

Tyson headed for the player's lounge to make himself a second, more filling breakfast. A number of guys were already there, dressed in an odd mishmash of street clothes and workout gear, looking antsy. "Good morning," Tyson said to Mikko, who was lurking in the doorway. "Get out of the way, you fucking pylon."

"Cranky," Mikko said. He followed Tyson to the coffee machine. "Did you see Landy and Nate practicing?"

"Sure," Tyson said. He stood back so that Mikko could make himself a cup, but Mikko didn't. He was hovering, which was an unnerving activity when done by one so tall, and his eyebrows were knitted together in a worried expression. Tyson suddenly became conscious of the hush in the room. "What? Are you worried because they're getting in some extra shots?"

"Not worried," Mikko lied, trying to look unconcerned and failing miserably. "Just... that's not usual, is it? At least for Gabe. And the way they've been playing..."

Tyson knew he was sort of a leader on the team. He wasn't an A, but he was mathematically the longest tenured member of the team, if you counted his years in the AHL. Tyson had been hanging around for the better part of a decade. Mikko had probably only approached him because he had no better choice—he could hardly ask Nate or Gabe, and EJ was technically out—but he'd still come to Tyson. He had to answer the question and put their minds to ease.

He just had to do that without suggesting that Nate and Gabe had been cursed by some unknown malevolent power.

"Look," he said, loud enough that everyone transparently eavesdropping could hear, "I know they've looked a little rough the last few games. Hell, I've looked like complete shit, too. It's a big thing we're trying to do, and if it was easy, we'd have done it already. But come on, it's Gabe and Nate. If they're taking some extra practice, that's good for us, because it means they want to win. Okay?"

Mikko nodded sheepishly. "You're right, that makes sense," he said, and then he went and sat down at a table with Soda and Comeau, neither of whom looked at all troubled in the slightest. Good—if something had upset Soda, then _that_ would be cause for panic. Until that point, Tyson was going to dump a ton of sugar in his coffee and tell himself he'd earned it by displaying exemplary leadership qualities.

After breakfast, he headed down to the video room. The rookie trio were already settled in their seats, and Tyson made conversation with them across the aisle. JT's sister was being scouted for Team USA, which Tyson Jost thought was the coolest thing in the universe. JT was trying to be lofty about it, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed, but he was also visibly fighting a smile that threatened to burst across his face. "She made the All-Rookie Team in her conference, too," he said proudly.

"Pretty cool," Kerfy said, "Too bad she plays for BU."

While Tyson was laughing at JT's wounded expression, Gabe and Nate came into the room. Gabe took his seat to his left, Nate's traditional seat, and Tyson did his best to deal with it like a normal person. But Nate, weirdly, wouldn't sit down—he stood in the aisle, mouth twisted into a strange shape. "Sit," Tyson said encouragingly, patting the chair to his right. "I know you want to."

"Doesn't _Gabe_ have to sit in his normal seat?" Gabe said, leaning way too close to Tyson's ear. Tyson ignored the way goosebumps broke out along his arms.

"No, we're switching it up. He's going to sit next to me and give me his Swedish good luck."

"There's no such thing as Swedish good luck," Gabe started to say, in a very pedantic, very _un-Nate_ way, but then Nate sighed and dropped into the chair heavily. He nearly sat on Tyson's hand where he was still patting the seat enticingly, and only Tyson's fast reflexes kept him from the dumbest injury of all time.

"Enough," Nate said. He sounded even crabbier than he had when Tyson had brought him coffee. "I can't listen to you flirting this early in the morning."

Tyson opened his mouth, and then shut it. Beside him, Gabe was silent, too. Nate was the only one making any noise, breathing harshly through his nose, as if the very air offended him.

Tape review was monotonously predictable. Gabe had already watched a decent amount of Sharks highlights online—Tyson's suggestion, given during yesterday's practice—and thus had plenty of insights ready to choose from. Nate was less confrontational about adding in his own observations, although he still seemed irritable, even when Bednar brought the lights up and dismissed them.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Tyson said in an undertone, as they filed out of the room.

"Nothing," Nate snapped. "Why was Mikko asking you what's wrong with us before tape? And when were you going to tell us?"

"Whoah," Gabe said from right behind them, and Tyson flinched at his sudden closeness, "Mikko said what? When was this?"

"It's not a big deal," Tyson said hastily, trying not to trample on the back of Nate's shoes as the three of them tried to fit through the doorway at once. Nate was furious and Gabe looked concerned, and none of them were watching where they were going. "Can we please talk about this after we—"

It was his fault. He was looking at Gabe, who was looking at Nate, who was glaring at everything in an indiscriminate way. He stepped on Nate's shoes, and Nate pulled up short, and Gabe, trying to dart around him, smacked his pinky finger into the wall. It was a completely trivial injury that wouldn't have mattered at all, except that Gabe immediately swore. In Swedish.

"Whoah, cool!" said Tyson Jost, who had left the room right before them but hadn't gone far enough not to hear Gabe raining profanity in Swedish. "Was that Swedish, Nate?"

"What?" said Nate, automatically responding to his name. Gabe, meanwhile, was losing all color in the face.

"I didn't know you could speak Swedish!" Josty said, still beaming. "Landy, what'd he say?"

Nate caught on at last, and cast an alarmed glance at Gabe. "What'd he say? Uh," he said, now turning to Tyson, as if Tyson had a solution tucked in his back pocket, "He said 'Shit.'"

"He said more than that," JT said from behind Josty. Kerfy had gone on ahead, but a few other guys had turned back to listen in on their conversation. Gabe looked pale as a ghost, Nate like he was going to make a run for it at any moment.

"Jesus, guys, he banged his finger," Tyson bluffed. "He said 'Oh shit, my finger.'"

For the first time, a hint of suspicion threatened Josty's cheerful expression. "Now _you_ know Swedish?"

"Yeah," Tyson said brusquely, "We all know Swedish. We all get together and we practice saying 'Tyson Jost is a nosy bastard and we don't like him.'"

"Okay, so say that," JT said.

"No way," Tyson said. Lifting his chin, arms folded, he did his best to tap into his reserves of inner fortitude. "First rule of Swedish club. You wouldn't understand. We don't invite rookies, and there's only one Tyson allowed in at a time."

Josty said something very unflattering under his breath about who the superior Tyson was, but that was all; he and JT went ahead to catch up with Kerfy. Tyson held his breath until the rest of the team had made it into the locker room, at which point it seemed like they all had permission to exhale again. Gabe swore in English this time, and Nate shook his head. "That was awesome," he said, and he yanked Tyson into a quick, bruising side-hug. "I think you totally had him fooled."

Tyson was still smiling when they walked into the locker room together, but it was short-lived. He had just sat down to change into his workout clothes when he caught sight of EJ, staring daggers at him.

Crap. EJ glaring was never a good sign.

"So," EJ said, picking his way across the linoleum, his crutches clicking together in an ominous way. It made Tyson think of a roller coaster reaching the top of a hill, about to plunge off the other side. "That Three Stooges routine you just pulled might have fooled Jost and JT, but not me. Or anyone else with more than two working brain cells."

"I don't—"

"Save it, Tys," EJ said. He was speaking quietly so as not to be overheard, but Tyson knew it was over. They were dead. "Let's talk at lunch. And you'd better bring Nate and Gabe."

Stomach lurching, Tyson changed. Around him, the room was happy chaos, guys bantering and throwing small projectiles while coaches and staff weaved around them, discussing the road trip and tomorrow's game. Tyson's fingers felt like lead as he yanked his workout shirt on.

Nate was closer. "EJ's on to us," Tyson said to him in passing, as he headed out to conditioning room. It was Nate's turn to grow pale, which looked extra strange underneath Gabe's reddish-blond beard.

"He's _on to us?_ What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Tyson said. The morning's hopeful optimism had curled up and died. He had tried and failed to find a way how EJ knowing could be a good thing. EJ was going to have them all committed. "But we're getting lunch, and you're fucking coming."

Nate must have told Gabe. Tyson went through his sets like a zombie, totally zoned out, worrying what EJ would say. It seemed crazy that he'd been worrying about that stupid photo he'd sent Gabe, when EJ was onto him and their whole house of lies was going to come crashing down. Even if EJ kept their secret, that would be the captain, both A's and Tyson all fucked up over the bodyswap, with no one left to actually lead the team.

Gabe came up to him as he was doing Russian twists with a kettleball. He only had a minute between his own sets, but at least there was nothing unusual about "Nate" wandering over to talk to him in a moment of downtime. "I heard," he said, choosing his words carefully for the benefit of the trainer spotting him. "You don't have to worry. EJ's cool."

Tyson didn't say anything. Mostly because he was concentrating, but partly because he had nothing to say. It was sweet of Gabe to try to make him feel better, but what was the point? Gabe seemed unwilling to accept that, though. He hovered for another minute, until he was called away. "I'll see you at lunch," he said, and even still he dawdled for another few seconds before finally going back.

Tyson wasn't worrying. He knew they were screwed. That seemed to be about par the course for him lately: every time he had a hopeful premonition the universe threw it back in his face. He threw himself into conditioning so he wouldn't have to think about it, which earned him a pat on the back from their head trainer. His real reward was drowning himself in the shower for a good ten minutes longer than he needed to. He couldn't get out of lunch with EJ, but he could at least delay it for a while.

Ultimately it was futile. EJ was waiting for him in the hallway when he came out in his jeans and sneakers, Nate and Gabe besides him. Flanking EJ on either side as he leaned on his crutches, looking gloomy, they looked like hostages.

"Okay," Tyson said reluctantly. "Where do you want to go? You choose."

EJ chose a very boring upscale American eatery about a minute from his house; just because he was going to interrogate them didn't mean he wasn't thoroughly EJ. They parked next to each other, four fancy silver cars in a row, and walked into the restaurant without speaking. EJ ordered a beer and cheese fries—he wasn't playing and could afford to enjoy himself—and then sat there, giving them all the gimlet eye until the waitress departed. As soon as she was more than ten feet away, he immediately launched into his speech.

"So," he said. "What the fuck is going on. The three of you have been acting weird for days. You both start playing like shit, then _Tyson_ starts playing like shit, you spend all your time whispering together, and now Nate can speak Swedish? Someone spill."

Gabe spoke first, and he sounded more irritated than anything else. "Tyson's not playing like shit. He had a couple of bad plays against LA, don't start ragging on him."

EJ rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine. Sorry, Tyson, you had a tough game, you played okay."

"It's fine," Tyson said, shrugging. "I was shit."

"You were _not shit_," Gabe snapped, and his hand was clenched into a tight fist on the tabletop. Tyson, taken aback, had no idea what to do.

"_Nate_," he said carefully. "It's fine."

"See, this is what I'm talking about. This kind of behavior," EJ said. Of course it looked strange to him; he and Nate never talked like that, especially not in public. The real Nate looked mortified to have heard Gabe talking like that at all. "And Gabe, I hate to say this," EJ continued, "But you keep tripping over your own dick when you try to lift our spirits after a game. It's honestly terrible."

Nate looked even more mortified. He bent his neck so far forward to pretend to read his menu that only the top of his head was visible. His ears, Gabe's ears, were bright red.

No one spoke as the waitress returned with their drinks. Even when she'd gone again, they all sat there in a communal, terrible silence, everyone staring determinedly at different things. "Something happened," EJ said. "What was it? Did you and Tyson have a fight?"

"Why would we have a fight?" Tyson said.

EJ snorted. "Because you're sleeping together?"

Tyson's arm jerked, and he managed to tip his glass over just far enough to pour water all over his front. "The fuck!"

"If it's supposed to be a big secret, maybe don't do it on the road? When your room is right next to your teammates? I mean, come on, Gabe," EJ said, addressing Nate, who was now tomato-red with embarrassment and looked as if he were ardently wishing for death, "Nobody needed to know what you sound like when Tyson's getting you off."

"Shut _up!_" Gabe ordered—from Nate's body.

EJ's head swiveled around to look at Gabe. The whole scene was farcical; who knew what wild conclusions he was drawing. "Let's just tell him the truth," Nate said, somewhere between hopeful and pleading. "Maybe he can help. At least he won't have to wonder what we're talking about."

"Help?" Gabe objected. "What, you think EJ knows shit about curses?"

"Oh, it's a curse. Well, why didn't you say so? I mean, did you even try giving it true love's kiss, or selling your first-born to a witch?" EJ said. He picked up his beer and took a swig of it, put it down, and then picked it back up again. Tyson didn't blame him. "You three are delusional if you think I buy that."

"No, we're not," Nate said. He crossed his arms over his chest, jaw set. He didn't like being called crazy, although Tyson didn't blame EJ for leaping to that conclusion. "We really are cursed. Well, Tyson's not. Gabe and I are."

"_You're_ Gabe."

"No, he's not. We switched bodies," Gabe said. "For some reason, he's me, and I'm him."

To his credit, EJ didn't laugh in their faces or immediately call Bednar. He did mouth _cursed_ to himself a few times though. Tyson fought an inappropriate urge to laugh himself. "Yeah, that was about my reaction too."

Nate started from the beginning. He had to keep interrupting himself when the waitress brought their food or another patron walked too close to the table, so the story unfolded itself in fits and starts, but it did unfold itself. EJ's expression went, in turns, from disbelieving to amused to outright flabbergasted, but he listened.

"But why?" EJ kept saying, when Nate had summarized their insane week up to the moment during practice where Gabe swore in Swedish and Tyson had covered it up so badly. "Why would this happen to _you,_ of all people?"

"We don't know," Gabe said. He was eating a hamburger with a knife and fork, which was incontrovertible proof that he was a European in Nate's body. Meanwhile, Nate was eating a grilled chicken wrap with his hands, like a normal person. Tyson was building himself a house of cards with sugar packets, like a child. "If you think of something, let us know. We've been trying for days to come up with a reason, or a way to get back, and we've got nothing."

Tyson added, "Willy didn't have any ideas either."

To his surprise, Gabe dropped his silverware to the table with an almighty clatter. He didn't seem to notice other diners looking their way. "You _told Willy—?"_

"I didn't _tell him_," Tyson snapped. His hands jerked, and the last layer of the sugar packet house crumbled in on itself, and whoops, there went the tight leash he had on his emotions. Suddenly he was furious at Gabe for acting all betrayed by Tyson trying to help him, to help the team. "I asked him if any of his fucking astrology covered bodyswaps, and it didn't. I thought you might like to get back to your right body before the season's over, _my bad_."

"But you told Mikko we weren't playing well, or whatever it is you said," Gabe shot back.

"I told him, when he _asked me_ if he should be worried about you, that you were working your asses off to get us to the playoffs. What the fuck else did you want me to do?"

Gabe took a huge breath in and held it, nostrils flaring, just as he did right before he took a stupid penalty. Tyson didn't particularly want Gabe to hit him, but he wanted _something_ to happen, even if it was a punch. To his right, EJ said in a confidential tone to Nate, "Does it bother you watching them be all couple-y in your body?"

"Fuck off, EJ," Tyson said without looking at him. "We're not a couple. We're in a crisis, and if you can't help, then shut the fuck up."

Gabe finally looked away, a muscle tensing in his jaw. Whatever. Tyson didn't give a shit if it made him mad that he'd been trying to get them un-bodyswapped. He'd kept their secret. He was just trying to help.

Furious, he pushed his food around his plate, mixing the rice into the smears of sauce. He knew he and Gabe would never be a real couple. He'd always known that. That didn't mean he enjoyed EJ rubbing it in.

After a beat, EJ started talking again. "I don't know anything about this. If you'd asked me this morning I'd say magic's not real, and I'm not convinced that you two haven't just lost your minds. But I really want to go to the playoffs, and I know you guys do too. So if there's any way to fix this, we have to try it."

"We can't think of anything," Gabe said. He sounded unaffected, too. Great—just Tyson who was in any way bothered by this conversation. "Except maybe helping Nate be a better captain."

EJ laughed. "No offense, Dogg, but we have a great captain. So why would the universe or whoever do this to you?"

"We don't know. It's the only thing we can think of," Nate said. "Also, like you said. My pep talks really suck."

"Okay," EJ said. Tyson watched him out of the corner of his eye, still fuming but definitely listening. Like EJ said, he wanted to go to the playoffs too. "So you—Nate," he said, nodding at the real Nate sitting in Gabe's body, "You just have to be the best captain you can be."

Nate smiled wryly. "Easy enough."

It was, by all measures, a win. Not a total win—Gabe and Nate were still in the wrong bodies, after all—but EJ hadn't called the FBI or tattled on them to Bednar, and he was actively helping them brainstorm solutions. Tyson had no reason to feel unsettled and cranky, but he did anyway.

And unfortunately for everybody, his tried-and-true method for dealing with his feelings was to be a total asshole. "We good here?" he said, pushing back in his chair and fishing some cash out of his wallet. "Good. See you at the airport."

He was out the door before any of them could stop him.

+++

Tyson rolled into the airport three minutes before he was officially late for their flight. It was a talent, cutting it so fine, but not one that he had used in years. Normally Nate drove him everywhere, but Nate, still mad from this morning and newly irked that Tyson had fled the restaurant, had not picked him up. Tyson had driven alone, practicing an easy, devil-may-care smile that he was going to wear like armor.

He had fucked everything up beyond belief. Last night he'd nearly confessed his feelings to Gabe and then sent him a weird, unappealing nude. That was dumb, but the salt in the wound was how annoyed Gabe had been at lunch over Tyson talking to Willy. Either Gabe didn't trust Tyson to keep their secret—unfair, Tyson hadn't told a soul—or Gabe just thought he was an idiot. Tyson was an idiot, so he couldn't blame Gabe for that, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

But that was the old Tyson. The new Tyson was going to stop caring about Gabe, because Gabe clearly didn't care that much about him. There was a problem to be solved, and Tyson could help with that, but sexting was off the table. Late night research parties, too. It would be strictly cool and professional from here on out, he decided, as he walked from the parking lot to the terminal, skin prickling in apprehension. No more inconvenient feelings, at least not from his end.

Gabe ruined that the minute walked in. Bednar opened the door for him and said, "We were starting to get worried about you," but Gabe sent him a very pointed look from all the way across the room. Tyson felt blood rush to his face. Gabe watched him for a long, awful moment, then turned his back on him. His body language couldn't be any fucking clearer, even if it was coming from Nate's body.

It made the most sense to go over to "Nate," but Tyson didn't fucking dare. Instead, he made a tactical decision to go hang out with Willy.

"Hey Tys," Willy said, as he lugged his bag over, "You're cutting it pretty close there, man."

"Who, me?" Tyson said, feigning innocence. "I had like, a whole thirty seconds to spare." It made Willy laugh, as well as a handful of other guys who were standing in earshot. Tyson wondered if Gabe would be mad that he had gone straight to Willy—would it look deliberate, that he had sought Willy out, only hours after Gabe had all but accused him of blabbing the secret to him? Just in case it did, he turned to Bernier and asked him how his son was doing, if he was excited about the school year ending. He said it loudly enough that Gabe would be able to hear him making pleasant conversation about non-curse topics. Just in case Gabe cared at all.

Nate, who was standing by himself with his headphones in, ignoring both of them in a fit of pique, was entirely oblivious to all of this.

When they were finally allowed to board, everyone split off and went to sit in their regular seats. Tyson dawdled on the stairs, wishing he didn't have to face Gabe. Unfortunately, magic was real but it wasn't biddable, so Tyson approached his and Nate's usual seat and found Nate's body sitting in it. Gabe did not look up as Tyson folded his jacket and sat down, not even when Tyson accidentally-on-purpose bumped his knee into Gabe's.

Gabe was _committed_ to ignoring him. That was fine, Tyson supposed—he could play along, and Gabe's silent disgust was better than his active fury. Sticking his earphones in before his ass even touched the leather, he turned his whole body to face the aisle, as far away from Gabe as possible.

His music wasn't nearly loud enough to drown out Gabe's irritated huff.

They hit some turbulence about forty-five minutes into the flight. Tyson couldn't have been happier—Willy was deathly afraid of flying, and the bumpy ride gave him the perfect excuse to ditch Gabe for a while. He bullied Nietsy out of his seat in front of Willy and spent most of the next hour holding Willy's hand over the back of the headrest.

"Sorry I'm so pathetic," Willy said, several times, looking green around the gills each time he removed his head from his knees.

Tyson had no room to be calling anyone else pathetic. "It's fine, dude," he said, patting Willy's hand where he was gripping the seatback with white knuckles, "I promise you, Nate's not missing me." And Nate definitely wasn't—he was two rows behind them, fast asleep and drooling against the window. He hadn't even spoken to Tyson all afternoon, which Tyson had to admit was fair.

They finally hit level air somewhere over Utah, and Willy was able to make normal conversation again. Tyson stayed with him until they began their descent, at which point he let Nietsy have his seat back. Gabe didn't acknowledge Tyson at all as he slid back into his normal seat. He was playing around on Nate's borrowed phone, but when Tyson snuck a peek at the screen, he was reading something in Swedish. Unfortunately, Tyson's heart clenched. It was very poor subterfuge, but it was very Gabe, and Tyson was nothing if not soft about Gabe.

"Flight's landing soon," he said, a tiny olive branch. Gabe nodded without looking up from the screen.

A flicker of sadness passed over Tyson. It wasn't Gabe's fault he didn't return Tyson's feelings. Love was fickle, and stupid. Sometimes people got insanely lucky, and sometimes they didn't, and there wasn't anything you could do about it.

Tyson just wasn't that lucky.

The bus ride from the airport to the hotel was a blur. San Jose was as different from southern California as it was from the East Coast cities; it was sunny but cool and humid, and the skyscrapers glittered in a way that Los Angeles never did. They had an hour or two before dinner, but nobody seemed eager to do anything, and Tyson found himself heading up to his room alone. Normally he'd go find Nate, but he didn't feel like it at the moment. Gabe was out of the question. EJ would want to talk, which sounded like a nightmare, and if he imposed on Willy any more than he had already, surely Willy would have questions, too.

Being alone sucked, but he didn't know what else to do with himself. He didn't want to bother anyone else. Unusually, he didn't even feel like picking up his phone and calling a friend from home. No one else could appreciate what he was going through: two terrifyingly huge games left on the schedule, and the bodyswap, and his dumb heart longing ardently for Gabe.

Even Nate wouldn't understand. He didn't know how deeply planted his feelings for Gabe had grown. And Gabe, who didn't love him and never would, was rightly pissed off at him. All he had for company was his own self-pity.

Flopping onto the bed, he put his face directly into the pillows and breathed in his recycled, stale air for a while. Big picture, it was all his fault. He was the dumbass who'd caught feelings for Gabe, knowing the whole time that that could never happen.

He'd known all along that this was inevitable. He knew exactly how his life was going to turn out. There was room for variation, sure—for instance, he could get traded this summer, maybe next year, or maybe just not resigned when his deal ran out—but the big picture was carved into stone. The broad contours of his life were as rigid as they'd been when he'd been seven years old, taking the ice with his dad, desperate to quit hockey yet with absolutely no choice in the matter. Things had turned out pretty okay for him, but it was stupid to get his hopes up. He and Gabe were never going to happen. It had been dumb to pretend otherwise.

When at last Tyson began to suffocate, he rolled over onto his back and opened his phone. Scrolling through social media was a nice, repetitive activity that required no thinking. A friend from Kelowna texted him, and he swiped the message away. His mom sent him a news article about a dog that could dance; he replied with a GIF of a seal clapping. A few minutes later, Nate sent him a message, short enough that his brain automatically read it before he could shut the notification bubble.

_are you OK?_

Tyson shut Twitter. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair a few times, making it unruly and unmanageable. _you know what dogg i'm trying really hard to help you here so if you could not be a dick that would be great_

_sorry_, Nate wrote.

Tyson wasn't done. He wasn't meant to be a solitary creature, spending time in silence, alone with his thoughts. Before he knew what he'd done he'd written: _i wasn't flirting with gabe during tape. i'm just being friendly until I can call things off with him_

_I know_

The words were pouring out of him now, like he couldn't fucking stop them. _it's hard enough to deal with him without you being such a douche_

He had barely hit send before his phone started to ring. It was Nate, of course; Tyson immediately regretted calling him a douche. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," he said at once.

"No, Brutes, listen. I'm sorry, okay?" Nate said. "I know things with Gabe suck right now. I know you're trying to help me."

"Okay. Well, good. Because I am."

Nate said nothing for a long time. Tyson picked at his dress pants, worrying at a loose thread above his knee. "You're really going to end it with him?" Nate asked, at last.

"Yeah. As soon as you guys are back in the right bodies. I can't keep doing this with him, Nate."

Again, Nate hesitated. Tyson had to sit there and listen to his own breathing while Nate struggled to put words together. "You're sure?"

"We just... don't want the same things." So what if Tyson had fallen for Gabe? It didn't matter so long as Gabe didn't feel the same way, and Gabe was never going to feel the same way. "Oh, and the whole team knows, too," he groaned, remembering what EJ had said. If EJ knew, everyone knew. Had that been what Willy meant, when he'd been so quietly solicitous over lunch? "So, yeah, that's a fucking mess."

"I'm really sorry," said Nate.

Tyson shrugged. It was pointless to get worked up over it, when he'd known all along that this is how it would end. "You didn't have to call me."

"It was just... I don't know. You got so mad at lunch when EJ said you guys were being a couple."

"So I'm pathetic?"

"You're not pathetic," Nate said fiercely. Tyson absolutely was, but he still felt a rush of affection at Nate's misplaced protectiveness. "I really wish this would work out for you."

"Don't you fucking dare wish for anything. Who knows what'll happen. Gabe'll turn into a frog or something, and I'll have to kiss him. No thanks," Tyson said. It made Nate laugh, which was his intention, but he couldn't help picturing it. At least with a frog you knew where you were. It had been four days and they were no closer to unswapping than Tyson was to winning the Conn Smythe.

"You're going to find somebody, you know? Somebody a lot better than Landy," Nate said.

Tyson closed his eyes. "Thanks Dogg."

It was impossible to think about. He didn't want somebody better. He just wanted Gabe, no matter how stupid and improbable that desire was. Tyson tried not to dwell on his bad feelings, but there was a crater inside his chest, abundantly full of unrequited love. It would go away eventually, but until then he could feel it throbbing, just behind his ribs, growing worse whenever he saw or thought of Gabe.

Nate cleared his throat. "You, uh. Want to get dinner?" He had reached his limit to being understanding and emotionally intelligent. Which was fine—Tyson had reached his, too. And he was hungry, and restless, and bored of stewing in his own misery.

"Hell yes," he said, resolving not to think about Gabe, any more, for the rest of his life if he could help it. "Meet you downstairs in ten."

April 5, 2018  
Tyson dreamed a series of uninteresting dreams, but the one he really remembered featured an eighteen year old Nate trying to drive Tyson's car and doing a bad job of it. He had no idea why he'd dreamt that, but he woke up filled with nostalgia, pining for the relatively uncomplicated salad days of their youth.

Nate liked to say that Tyson had adopted him as a rookie. Tyson had done no such thing. When Nate arrived at his first camp, he had truly terrible hair, his own preselected nickname, and a competitive streak a mile wide. Tyson had spent day one of camp worrying that Nate, like most first overall picks, was all ego; then he'd spent the rest of the pre-season trying to get a moment to himself. Nate had, like a barnacle, cemented himself to Tyson's side. He definitely had an ego, but mostly he had a terrifying, single-minded dedication to his goals. He had decided to be Tyson's friend, and Tyson simply couldn't stop him.

Overall, it was a pretty sweet deal for Tyson. Nate was an asshole who spent more time each day thinking about hockey than Tyson spent thinking about anything, but he was a great friend. He demonstrated that friendship when Gabe tried to sit with Tyson at breakfast, the morning of the San Jose game. Nate stubbornly sat down first and wouldn't budge.

"That's my seat," Gabe said, sounding confused. "Nate—I mean. Gabe. Come on."

"No," Nate said. He stuffed a forkful of omelet in his mouth and cast a longing look over at Tyson's bowl of oatmeal, liberally topped with brown sugar, toasted walnuts, and cinnamon. "Go sit somewhere else."

Gabe narrowed his eyes and then looked at Tyson. Tyson didn't feel like intervening. Yes, it was strange for the team to see "Gabe" being territorial about Tyson, but the team could deal. It was worth it to have Nate sitting across from him, being cartoonishly protective of Tyson's dumb-ass heart. Gabe looked unhappy about this, but he didn't press; he went and sat at another table.

"Thanks," Tyson said quietly. Nate shrugged and stole a piece of turkey bacon off his plate.

"Nobody messes with T-Beauty."

Tyson blushed at this obvious, flagrant attempt to cheer him up, but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to; Nate was radiating satisfaction at playing white knight. He chased off Josty, too, for being too loud, and Z for being too annoying. Instead, the two of them had the calmest breakfast Tyson could remember in months, eating their food in companionable silence, the only sound that of their silverware clinking against their plates.

It was nice. Tyson couldn't help but wish it was the _real_ Gabe being so solicitous of him, but that wasn't fair. He was lucky to have Nate as his best friend.

After breakfast, Tyson went up to his room and packed his things. There would be no time, after; they were going straight from the arena to the plane. He was just about finished when he remembered that he wanted his tablet and, by unlucky chance, he had packed it at the bottom of his suitcase. Cursing himself, he dug it out and then crammed his clothes back into the suitcase in a jumbled heap. It didn't matter. They'd be home tonight and he could do laundry before he fell asleep. He had a plan to help Nate, and it didn't require his suitcase to be neatly packed.

Outside, the team was congregating around the bus, boarding in the slow, unhurried fashion they always did in the morning when it wasn't too cold outside. Tyson cut the line and grabbed Nate just as he was about to step onto the bus. "Come with me," he said. Nate, startled, did as he was told, following Tyson to the back of the bus.

"Hey," Tyson said, fighting his way past Soda, who was standing in the aisle, blocking everyone, to the back of the bus, where Nemo and Bourque were already seated. "We need the back row."

It wasn't even a whole row—they always got the buses that had a second, fancy emergency exit door in the back corner, and consequently three seats were missing to allow the stairs to the back door. The two remaining seats were slightly cramped but had a generous amount of legroom between them and the next row. It smelled vaguely of exhaust, but it was the only semi-private space on the whole bus.

"But we _always_ sit here," Nemo said, confused. Bus seats were sacred—hockey players were creatures of habit, and also stupid enough to be territorial about even the crappy back row seats. Tyson didn't begrudge Nemo for resisting, but he wasn't going to settle for anything less than the back row. He needed those seats.

"Great, glad to hear it," Tyson said. "We still need the back row."

"Yeah," Nate added, trying to sound fierce despite having no idea what was happening.

Bourque squinted up at them. "Does this have anything to do with why you guys have been so weird lately?"

Tyson considered himself a peaceful, friendly guy who got along well with all his teammates, but if the two of them didn't get up soon, Tyson was going to push them out the window.

Luckily, EJ intervened before that had to happen. "Hey," he yelled. Tyson, and everybody else on the bus, turned to look at him. EJ had puffed himself up to full height, scowling, an intimidating wall of a man, even in his suit and clutching crutches. _"Landy_ needs the back row. Captain's orders, so move. Or I'll whack you with my crutch."

Nemo grumbled, but he stood up. _Thanks, _ Tyson mouthed, to EJ, who smirked. Tyson didn't have time to worry about EJ and his machinations; the ride to the arena wasn't that long, and they really needed to work on this speech. Instead, he grabbed Nate's wrist and yanked him into the back row, nearly knocking Bourque off his feet as they went.

"Ouch," Nate complained, massaging his wrist. "You're freakishly strong, you know that?"

"I am not," Tyson said. He dove into his bag and pulled his tablet free, bringing up the notes he had written last night when he'd had trouble sleeping. "You're just a baby. Okay, listen here. We need to work on your speech. I'm just going to give you pointers, you can catch up with Gabe at the rink for his final stamp of approval." He raised his head to check that Nate was still listening, and was taken aback by Nate's expression. "What?"

"Nothing," Nate said. He was smiling, but he looked impressed too; his eyebrows were raised, and when Tyson lowered his tablet screen Nate ducked over his shoulder to read his notes. "You're just really on top of this stuff."

Tyson did not consider making a couple of notes to be "on top of it," but nothing had worked so far and they were running out of time. If he had to resort to bulleted lists, so be it. "Just stick to the three good things, and then, you know, actually explain what you're talking about," he said. "It's simple and easy to remember, and if you don't count them out on your fingers it won't sound like you're just reading off a list, it'll sound natural. And don't forget to talk about the guys who don't play a lot of minutes, if you see something good in their game, that's good. Gabe always mentions that. You and Mikko and Sam, you guys are used to Coach calling you out when you contribute, but don't forget the rookies and the scratches."

"Yeah, Gabe does do that."

"I pay attention," Tyson said. He'd been listening to Gabe talk for the better part of ten years now. "I wore the A that one preseason game. Anyway, don't call anybody out if they suck, that doesn't help. Take them aside during the intermission or after the game in private. You fucking saw Warsofsky last time, right? Poor guy's still getting over it. _What?"_

Nate's expression had now pivoted to a wide, beaming smile, and Tyson automatically reached a hand up to make sure his hair wasn't misbehaving. But Nate just shook his head and said, "Nothing. I'm just glad I have you to help me."

"Of course I'm going to help you." Tyson didn't know whether to be exasperated or fond. "You're my Dogg."

"Yeah but, that's really good advice," Nate argued. "I bet you were a really good captain back in Junior."

"I was fine." He'd never had to deal with a bodyswap curse back in junior, or indeed anything that couldn't be solved with a bracing pep talk or a case of Mountain Dew. "But more importantly, you're going to be a good captain tonight."

"I just meant, thanks."

Tyson threw up his hands. "I _know what you meant_."

"Are you still sad?" Nate said, which was kind of out of the blue and kind of not. Tyson had been as sad last night as he'd ever been in front of Nate, which was unpleasant to realize, and Nate was justified in worrying about him. Nate gave him a shrewd look over the top of his tablet as Tyson searched for something to say. Trapped, Tyson squirmed guiltily in his seat.

"I'm not sad. You're sad. _You_ cried, which is why I'm helping you."

Scoffing, Nate turned back to Tyson's notes. He was, for whatever reason, letting Tyson off the hook. Tyson was absurdly grateful. "I didn't cry. I just had something in my eye."

"You fucking liar," Tyson said, without heat. He tapped his tablet screen, willing himself to focus only on this problem and not on Gabe at all. "Let's think about some things to mention in your speech."

+++

Unusually, they held their pre-game meeting early, so that Bednar could sit in on a call to Toronto about the tie-break procedure. The meeting seemed rushed and antsy; everyone wanted to know what the League would say. Bednar slowly reviewed the plays he wanted to go over, reiterating the mindset they needed, but the boys were nervous and only half-listening. It wasn't like the league was going to announce that the first team alphabetically would go through, or that any team with bodyswapped players automatically got home ice advantage. But still, they wanted to be sure what they needed to do to clinch.

When the meeting got out, Tyson wandered alone down the hallway. They played in the Shark Tank often enough that he had a rough idea where he was going, but he had no destination in mind. There was plenty of time between now and warm-ups, but Tyson didn't want to play two-touch or just hang around, shooting the shit. The afternoon seemed to be stretching out ominously into infinity. As he walked deeper and deeper into the building, it was almost as if he could hear people's voices, even through the thick concrete separating the public Shark Tank from the inner sanctum. There was way too much time to kill before the game, and Tyson was restless and adrift.

If they didn't go to the playoffs, Tyson had no idea what would happen. He spent every summer gearing up to be traded, but it would hurt more now. They were so close to going back, he could feel it. If not this year, definitely next, and there was no reason, with their young, dynamic core, that they couldn't make a deep Cup run. But nothing was guaranteed while they were still cursed. And no matter how the season ended, soon he'd be heading home again, and Gabe would go to Worlds or maybe Sweden, and who knew if they'd even be on the same team come fall?

Suddenly, he could hear actual voices, from closer than expected. It didn't sound like the guys, or even their staff—he must have gone too far. Any further and he'd probably end up in the Sharks dressing room. Although he knew some of them from Team Canada, he had no desire to exchange pleasantries. Vlasic was probably still pretty mad at him and Nate for that night in Paris when he'd almost exsanguinated in Giroux's hotel room; Tyson didn't think he'd be eager to catch up and exchange pleasantries.

He turned back. Unusually, nobody was hanging out in the hallway, getting ready for two-touch; nobody was _anywhere._ Confused, Tyson circled around, wondering where everyone had gone. It was too early for warm-ups and way too late for lunch.

Just as he was about to head into the visitors' lounge and check there, a familiar sound made him pause. Rubber tipped metal against concrete—it was EJ, of course. Hustling down the hallway, his suit jacket bunched up where the crutches rubbed against his armpits, he looked determined. Tyson briefly hoped he was heading somewhere else, but EJ was laser-focused, bearing down on him like a natural disaster. "Hey, Tyson," he said, at last in normal speaking range, "What are you doing?"

"Looking for everybody else," Tyson said. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for you."

Nettled, Tyson shrugged and kept walking. EJ fell into step beside him, more staccato but just as quick. "Well," Tyson said, "Here I am."

EJ grinned at him, but it was less evil than normal. It was maybe even tinged with something sad around the edges. Tyson braced himself for another horrible conversation. "I wanted to apologize," EJ said, looking around as if checking for eavesdroppers, which was pretty funny in the totally abandoned hallway, "For that lunch back in Denver, I guess."

"You guess," Tyson said, wrinkling his nose. "Well, gee, thanks Erik."

EJ frowned, opened and then shut his mouth, and then finally sighed. "Why didn't you guys tell me?" he asked. He sounded sufficiently put out that Tyson didn't think he was jealous of being left out. In fact he was shaking his head, frown distorting his face. EJ was almost always smiling; it looked unnatural for his face to be in any other configuration. "I'm the oldest, I deserve to know about voodoo shit happening to my guys."

"It was a group decision. Believe me, I wanted to tell you. You think it's been easy, being the responsible adult about this?" Tyson put huge air quotes around _responsible adult,_ exaggerated enough that EJ barked out a laugh. "But Gabe was all, 'No, let's not tell EJ, let's keep his respect.'"

Tyson wasn't the only one who'd looked up to EJ for years.

"I respect you. I respect all of you. And I don't just mean hockey, either," he added, when Tyson scoffed. "Tyson, come on. Why didn't you tell me about you and Gabe?"

Tyson pulled up short at the doorway to the lounge, hesitating just outside the room. Even hunched over on crutches, EJ loomed half a head taller than him, and he could, when he felt like it, be intimidating. But he wasn't trying to be—he was just looking down at Tyson, sympathy stamped all over his face.

Shrugging, Tyson stuck his hands in his pockets. "What's to tell?"

"Tys," EJ said. "Clearly this is more than a hookup."

"No," he said, annoyed by the gentleness in EJ's voice, "It's not."

He forced himself to smile, as if to say _what can you do_, and then he turned and pushed the door open wide so EJ could hop through. EJ followed; the room was empty, conspicuously so. Tyson gave the battered sofas a thorough once-over, while EJ lingered by the doorway, but nobody was crouched in the corners waiting to surprise him. Could magic cause whole hockey teams to spontaneously vanish?

"Maybe you should kiss Gabe."

Tyson stared at him over his shoulder. "I have," he said. If EJ and the rest of the team had been periodically overhearing him and Gabe hooking up on the road, surely EJ knew that? "Like, a lot."

"No, I mean, true love's kiss."

Tyson recoiled as if stung. "Fuck you, EJ."

"Maybe it's worth a try," EJ insisted. He wasn't teasing—even EJ had lines he wouldn't cross—but it still sucked, so badly. "I know he looks like Nate, but you could close your eyes—"

"I'm not his fucking true love. Jesus, EJ, you're his best friend. We've been sleeping together for eight months and he didn't even tell _you_."

EJ's mouth fell shut with an audible click. Tyson felt like shit, like something that had been ground into the sidewalk. This is why he didn't talk about his stupid fucking feelings with people. He turned away so he wouldn't have to check if there was pity in EJ's expression. If there was, Tyson would feel obligated to punch him.

After a moment or two of Tyson staring hard at the wall, EJ said, "I'm sorry."

Tyson shrugged again. "It's fine."

EJ was a pal, so he didn't say, _No, it's not_. He just nodded.

But EJ was still an asshole, no matter how fond Tyson was of him. Just as Tyson finally worked up to turning around and looking at him again, EJ shot him a smile, gummy and evil-looking. "You know _I'll_ always love you, right Tyson?"

Tyson glared at him. "That's the worst thing you've ever said to me."

"It's true," EJ said happily.

Sighing, Tyson flicked the overhead light off and shooed EJ back into the hallway, ignoring EJ giving him shit for not saying it back. It was harder to ignore the buzz of his phone in his pocket. As he fished his phone out of his pocket, EJ stopped short to read over his shoulder, leading to a collision of elbows, metal and knees.

"You dick," Tyson said, rubbing his elbow where it had banged against EJ's crutch. Nate had sent the text: _come to the parking lot, wanna show you something_. Since Nate had never, ever asked Tyson to meet him in a parking lot before, the message seemed ominous. "What are the odds they fixed the bodyswap in the parking lot?"

"Probably around 0%," EJ said, "But that's also the odds that they'd switch bodies in the first place, so what do I know?"

True, and besides, Tyson didn't have anything better to do than let EJ bully him and ask him more probing questions about his feelings. So the two of them went outside, to the visitor lot, where the bus was parked. A couple of the guys were hanging around the back door, looking out into the bright yellow square of sunlight flooding in through the open door. The glare was so bright Tyson could only see the dark asphalt through the doorway, but he could hear raised voices and laughter. Comes turned around as they approached and fixed Tyson with a smile. "You'll like this," he said.

"I'll like what?" Tyson asked, baffled, but as he stepped outside, it became clear. Nate and the rookies were whizzing around the parking lot on electric scooters, going _perilously_ fast considering that they had to play the Sharks in a few hours. "Holy shit," Tyson said, as Tyson Jr. came straight at him and then peeled off at the last second, "What is this?"

"Scooter mafia!" Josty called over his shoulder. He was showing off, weaving through Barbs and Mikko like they were posts in a drill, his suit jacket flapping in the breeze. "Beep beep, mafia coming through."

"Watch where you're going!" Tyson yelled back at him.

Nate came over and gracefully slowed to a stop. With an air of elegance that Tyson had thought was intrinsic to Gabe and Gabe alone, he stepped off the scooter and shook back Gabe's hair luxuriantly, like he was in a shampoo commercial. "We're the founding members. Scooter gang."

"Scoot scoot!" yelled Compher as he traced figure 8s onto the blacktop.

"Oh, scoot scoot sounds way better," Josty said, zipping past again. "Scoot scoot!"

Nate rolled his eyes at them. Kerf was following Jost around on foot, keeping a very worried eye on him and casting dark looks at the pavement. The social media team was out, too, filming JT doing lazy loops at about five miles an hour. Snorting, Nate shook his head, elbows resting on the handlebar of his scooter. Tyson didn't know where to look—at him or at the rookies making hairpin turns on the asphalt. It was as unexpected as it was delightful.

"This is... so not like you," Tyson said, marveling at the scene. The real Gabe was standing over by the door, arms crossed across his chest, and for a moment Tyson wondered if they had swapped back. Tyson had never known Nate to do anything remotely dangerous during the season, and riding scooters around the parking lot seemed like exactly the kind of thing he'd hate. Nate liked golf, not anything exciting. When Nate looked at him, questioning, Tyson backtracked. "I mean, it's very _Gabe_ of you."

"It's fucking dumb," Nate said, rolling his eyes again. "But Sid told me about it, and look how happy they are!" Tyson had to agree—the guys looked fucking gleeful. Z was now trying to fit on the back of Josty's scooter, which seemed destined to end in failure, but everyone was laughing and taking pictures and enjoying themselves. The nervous anxiety they'd been holding onto through the team meeting was gone.

Tyson was still surveying his team, smiling and goofing around, when he noticed that Nate was looking at him, knuckles tense on the handlebars of his scooter. "Do _you_ like it?" Nate said eagerly.

Touched, Tyson didn't know what to say. It was unlikely that this was all for him—Nate had gotten everyone involved, and it was paying massive dividends in terms of morale—but still. Nate was trying. He was fucking cursed and he was trying to make _Tyson_ feel better. It was so sweet that Tyson didn't know what to do with himself.

Nodding briefly, he pointed at the scooter. "Can I take her out for a spin?"

"Gabe, don't let him!" Josty said from across the parking lot. Z had his arms around his waist as Josty steered them around very, very slowly. Both of them were grinning from ear to ear; Kerf, meanwhile, looked on in agony. "Mafia members only!"

"Shut up, Josty, just because you're not in Swedish Club."

Josty flashed his teeth at him and put on a little burst of speed. Behind him, Kerf covered his face in his hands and moaned. "I'll show you how to do tricks if you let me into Swedish Club."

"_No tricks_, Josty, we have a game to win!" Nate shouted. Josty pouted but at least he didn't try to ollie with Z perched on the back of his scooter.

Nate handed the scooter over to Tyson, and although he carefully explained the mechanism, it was pretty idiot-proof—all Tyson had to do was kick off, rev the handle and the scooter shot forward. He zoomed past Josty and Z, who were barely going fast enough to remain upright, and nearly clipped JT as he took a wide corner. "Careful," JT said, but Tyson just laughed. He caught Gabe's eye as he drove around the lot, and though he braced himself for irritation or condescension, Gabe just smiled at him. Relieved, Tyson couldn't keep himself from smiling in return.

It was as uncomplicated a joy as he was likely to find. He posed for social media photos and took great joy in weaving annoyingly between JT and Josty. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun.

"Hey, _Gabe,"_ he called to Nate, putting one foot down to steady himself as he stopped in front of Nate, who was surveying his handiwork with a look like a proud father. "You wanna hop on?"

"I'm not riding in the back," Nate said, with absolutely no conviction; Tyson barely had to bat his eyelashes before he gave in. Sighing, Nate gritted his teeth and hopped on behind Tyson. He put his hands on Tyson's shoulders, decidedly unromantic. Good—Tyson never wanted to feel romantic about Nate and he wouldn't allow himself to feel romantic about Gabe anymore. He leaned in, close to Tyson's ear, to add, "If you break Gabe's wrist, we're screwed even if we do switch back."

"I'll protect you with my life," Tyson said solemnly. He kicked off and the engine shot to life, and he and Nate went sailing across the parking lot in lazy, arcing loops.

+++

The rookies wanted to buy jackets that said Scooter Club on them. They were talking about it as they got changed, debating the merits of leather versus denim. Nate had indirectly created a menace, but it was cute. Josty was late onto the ice for warmups because he was trying, badly, to sketch the ideal leather jacket with SCOOT SCOOT emblazoned across the back in crimson letters.

Nate was doing his best to take it in stride, but it was clear that he had not been prepared for the idea to catch on. He had no opinions on the Scooter Club jacket design; he refused to even commit to buying such a jacket. "This is the dumbest thing I've ever done," Nate complained to Tyson, as they both took a lap around their half of the ice. The Shark Tank was suffocatingly loud with fans and spectators, but down on the ice level, it was sheltered. As long as Nate stood close by, Tyson could actually hear him speak. "I can't believe how into it they are."

"You're a trendsetter," Tyson said. They came to a stop out near center ice, a few feet away from where the Sharks were taking passes. "Hazards of being so handsome."

"They're just scooters," Nate said. He looked so bemused that Tyson had to laugh and leave him there, out in the middle of the rink, baffled why the rookies thought he was cool.

The rookies adored Gabe because everyone adored Gabe. But they were also eager for heroes; they would have cheerfully worshipped Nate if Nate had ever given them the opportunity. But Nate, despite his immense talent, was not _cool._ Nobody ever had a chance to be star-struck by him because he would bulldoze over and start giving advice the moment someone joined the team. He was too fanatical about hockey to really care about a guy's seniority or salary. He just wanted to play, to the best of his ability, and he was determined to drag them all along with him. It was incredibly easy to get acclimated to sharing a locker room with Nate: Nate was always the most talented guy in the room, but he was also just one of the guys.

Gabe, in contrast, looked like that, played like that, and really was as generous, open-hearted and decent as everyone said. No one, especially not the impressionable rookies, could resist Gabe and his effortless charm.

Even Tyson, who knew better, had not been immune.

Tyson took a couple of shots by himself, pinging two off the post and sneaking one past Bernie's blocker, and then went over to talk to Sam. Sam was technically a rookie, but he had more brain cells than the rest of the youngsters combined. For example, he had not expressed an interest in matching Scooter Club jackets. When Tyson asked how he was holding up, Sam shrugged. "It's just one game," he said. "If we don't win this one we can win at home on Saturday."

Tyson admired that sentiment, even if he himself felt like pure anxiety in human form. But then, Sam didn't know that unknown magical forces were actively conspiring against them. "Good attitude," Tyson said, clapping Sam on the shoulder, "Keep it up."

It would have been nice to be a rookie on this campaign. G was 19. He'd never suffered a season-long slump, let alone a three year playoff drought. For him and the others, this was nothing but excitement, a thrilling race against themselves. Tyson envied that optimism. What they were doing was possible, but it wasn't going to be easy.

Well, maybe it was possible. The analysts hadn't factored in magic curses when making their predictions.

He heard someone skate up next to him, so he wasn't shocked when Gabe nudged him in the shoulder. "Hey," Gabe said, "You looked like you were a million miles away."

Tyson didn't doubt that. Shaking himself loose from his pessimistic reverie, he did his best to smile casually. "Lost in my thoughts, I guess. You ready to warm up?"

Tyson and Nate had been warming up together every single game since Nate had been drafted—minus injuries, illness and the two games earlier this week. Gabe had done a perfectly adequate job of stickhandling and taking shots with Tyson, but Tyson still felt a phantom loss from not being with Nate. Gabe, who looked like Nate and was even getting pretty good at playing like Nate, just wasn't the same.

If it had been the real Nate, he would have been crabby already that they were behind schedule. Instead, Gabe just skated along after him as Tyson found them a little circle of space to work in. "Nate ran his speech ideas by me," Gabe said, as Tyson snagged a lone puck from along the boards. Tensing, Tyson waited to see what Gabe would say next. Gabe merely shrugged. "It was good. Much better than what he came up with on his own."

"Even though I told him what to say if we lose?"

Gabe's smile was less confident than Tyson would have liked, but there was enough of that familiar cockiness that both he and Nate shared. "Well, if we win, he won't have to use it," he said, and then he reached out and stole the puck off Tyson's stick. Grinning, Tyson feinted as if to lunge and steal it, and Gabe sent it back over to him, a neat pass that landed right at his feet.

"You liked the scooters," Gabe said, as Tyson juggled the puck on the end of his blade.

"The Dogg is full of surprises," he said. He was trying to be normal. It was even odds if EJ had immediately tattled on him to Gabe—Tyson didn't even begrudge him, he'd do the same for Nate in his position—and if there was any chance EJ hadn't, he needed to play it cool for once in his life. "Bet you wish you'd gotten a chance to ride them. They were fun."

Smiling, Gabe shrugged his shoulders. He missed the puck as Tyson passed it over to him but moved swiftly to scoop it back up. It was still uncanny how he moved somewhat like himself, somewhat like Nate—close enough to fool the untrained eye, but not Tyson. "Who knew it would take switching bodies to make him develop a sense of humor?"

As they were huddling up for Coach's last notes before the game, Tyson stood behind Mikko, trying to think about plays and zone entries and nothing else. It wasn't hard to do—nobody needed to be told how crucial this game was to their chances. Bednar had to shout to be heard over the fans cheering, and not long after his remarks the lights went down. Tyson and Z were starting the period, so they skated out for the anthem, coming to a stop as the lights show started to play out over the darkened stadium.

It was just one game. They could win either one, Tyson reminded himself, as the anthem blared over the speaker system. They could still get it done.

Both teams lined up for the faceoff. Hertl against Gabe. Tyson could feel his nerves like a greasy balloon, rising up his stomach and into his throat; he swallowed hard, shoving it so far down he couldn't feel it.

The whistle blew.

Gabe whipped his stick forward in an instant, snapping the puck backwards and winning the face-off. That was good—they needed to seize control early, and Gabe's confident moves in Nate's body had left Hertl almost overbalanced. Mikko took possession and the top line sprinted towards the Sharks goal, Tyson and Z following. The crowd roared their displeasure, but Tyson barely heard it. Most of what he heard was his own breathing as Gabe took a shot from the left face-off circle. Jones moved slowly but it sailed wide; clattering off the glass, it landed right in the path of an oncoming Shark. Comes stole it back as he came onto the ice, but his shot went wide, too. This time, the puck went spinning down the ice, way back into their zone.

Tyson swore and chased after it.

Donskoi slammed him into the boards at the far end, and Tyson's head rattled in his helmet. While his ears were still ringing, the puck squirted loose. Gabe recovered it, then went off the ice as the lines changed. The new forwards brought the puck back up the ice as Tyson tried to shake out the sting in his ribs. Josty got hit, then Kerfy behind Jones's net; it happened one after another, like dominoes toppling. Tyson pressed forward, trying to support the attack, but then the Sharks had possession again.

Back they went. Tyson got a minute's break while Sam and Nemo skated it out, and then he was back over the boards. Nate was furious in Gabe's body, slicing through the Sharks defense like he was trying to carve up the ice. Gabe, meanwhile, looked like he was desperate to sneak in an early goal and capture the advantage. He was everywhere on the Sharks side of the ice, searching for any crack in Jones's armour.

The Sharks took control, again, and went racing back. Sam had been out on the ice for a minute, almost, sprinting all the while, and Nemo was heaving for breath already. The play came up slowly, quick passes back and forth, and then Ward took a shot—Tyson gripped his stick with bloodless fingers, hardly breathing as Sam dived to cut it off. The puck struck him, full force, on the upper thigh, then spun harmlessly back out to center ice. Sam, fearless and indestructible, had already climbed back to his feet.

"Tyson, Z," Bednar called. Tyson swallowed hard. The two of them jumped the boards and skated out, with Z nearly taking Sam out as he went.

"Nice one," Tyson hollered, and Sam flashed him a small smile as he disappeared into the bench.

The forward lines had changed too; Nate and Gabe had both come back on, but not Mikko. Bourque had gone too slowly, missed their opportunity, and his continued presence made everything painfully lopsided up front. Not that that stopped them—the three of them surged forward, trying to push the puck up. But Boedker had possession: he was sprinting down the righthand side, leaving the rest of them in the dust. Tyson was in the middle, with Hertl to deal with, so Z slid over to cut Boedker off. Between Gabe at his heels and Z in front of him, there was nowhere for Boedker to go. Wheeling around the net, he passed to Couture, who threw it out to Braun way out by the blue line. Tyson, in front of the net, had Hertl up his ass and Couture lurking to his left. Z was in the shooting lane, and Bourque was way out in front, with plenty of room to cut him off.

Braun fired a one-timer. Bourque threw his body in the way, just as Sam had done a minute or so ago. But this time, the puck glanced off the handle of his stick and richocheted. It sailed past Z. It sailed past Bernie. It struck the crossbar and landed safely in the net.

The goal horn blared, deafening and dispiriting. Couture, who was still breathing down Tyson's neck, whooped loudly into his ear. "Fuck yes, Brauny!" he yelled, as he skated to congratulate his teammate. Tyson contemplated slashing him as he passed. He resisted the urge, barely. He knew he was about to get double-shifted. He knew they had to do better than that.

"Fuck this," Nate snarled, gliding past him. He looked spitting mad, like he wanted to slam his stick against the ice until it broke. "Fuck their whole stupid team."

The guys on the bench, who could hear Nate as clear as day, looked alarmed. The expression on the linesman's face wasn't much better. Thinking quickly, Tyson slapped Nate's ankle with the flat of his stick. "Didn't expect you to give up that quickly. First period's not even over, eh?"

Nate scowled, but without quite so much venom. He glowered at Tyson, jaw clenched tight enough to snap, as Gabe lined up to take the face-off, but Tyson didn't care if Nate was annoyed at him. Tyson would cheerfully bear the brunt of Nate's bad moods, from now til forever, if it kept them in the game.

Nate hadn't given up. Nate had missed out on whatever personality trait or genetic code allowed other people to give up—Nate simply didn't exist in a plane where failure was possible. So moments later, when Mikko's shot sailed past Jones' blocker side and bounced off the glass, it was Nate who retrieved it. Nate retrieved the next two rebounds, too, and set up a dangerous play that fizzled out when Burns blocked Gabe's shot. Burns winced as he skated off; Tyson didn't feel that bad for him.

Gabe looked nearly as furious as Nate when he and Tyson both ended up on the bench. He wasn't looking at Tyson, or anybody else on the bench; he was following the play out on the ice with narrowed eyes, mere slits behind his visor. On their next shift, his fury was visible in each stride. He was skating like he wanted to carve the ice down to the bare concrete.

If Gabe or Nate boiled over, this game would get out of hand. This wasn't the controlled fizz of a good rivalry or even a general loathing; this was bilious and awful, and coming from the two of them, directed inwards. The other guys were antsy and unsettled, watching the two of them like they were already waiting for the explosion.

As the third line piled over the boards, looking worse for wear, Tyson leaned forwards. "What the fuck was that out there?" he yelled. He was aiming for jocular but it didn't appear to land—Sven, who'd taken a decent shot and gotten unlucky, was startled at being addressed.

"You didn't like that?"

"Woulda liked it more if it had gone in the fucking net!"

Sven realized it was a joke about three or four seconds late, but when he did, his face split into a smile. "Okay, so you do better."

Tyson barely had a chance to breathe on his next few shifts, let alone set up a real scoring chance, but he managed to take a one-timer from the left that at least pinged off the crossbar.

Even still, there were too many mopey faces in Avalanche sweaters. Nate and Gabe had backed off from full boil, but everyone else was sluggish and a half-beat behind. Clearly Tyson wasn't working hard enough.

He knew what had to be done.

When his shift ended, Tyson flung himself not onto the bench but instead right into Willy and Mikko's space, both of whom looked startled to have a d-man in their laps. Tyson ignored them. "If I go punch Brent Burns in the teeth," he said to the entire bench, even though his words were ragged from a near-three minute shift, "You think that'll get you guys to quit fucking moping?"

The rookies blinked at him. Even Bourque, who had spent much of the period to this point trying to smother himself in his own knees, looked up. At last, Compher snorted and said, "Think he's a little outside your weight class, Tys."

Tyson squirted him with his water bottle. "It's called a heroic sacrifice, assholes."

It was working, though. Sam's lip twitched slightly, and Kerf leaned in to whisper something to Nail on his other side. Tyson felt a quiet flicker of satisfaction that ignited fully when Nate leaned over Mikko and said, "Don't like, actually punch Burnzie, you know?"

"How stupid do I look? Don't answer that," he added, when Nate opened his mouth.

The mood started to settle as they got their feet underneath them again. Tyson kept his mouth running every moment that he wasn't on the ice: chirping Gabe and Nate, teasing the other d-men, even lobbing shots at the Sharks as they skated past the bench. Even on the ice his jaw was working. Tyson barely had time to breathe—Bednar kept him out on the ice so much it was beginning to feel personal—but he could feel the team shaking off the hideous shock of that first early goal. Even Gabe had unclenched his jaw, if only slightly.

Despite some monstrously close chances that Bernie had to save heroically, the first period ticked to a close with the score unchanged. 1-0.

They spilled into the locker room, the sound of the crowd still baying for blood falling away. Nate, glowering and pacing, herded the boys in as they streamed down the tunnel, Gabe assisting. Bednar's expression was flat but not quite upset—that could mean anything, really. Tyson knew they hadn't played terribly, had even managed a few decent chances, but they were hardly dazzling, either. He didn't know if morale would survive a load of constructive criticism, earned or not.

"Deep breaths," he advised Nate, as they followed the last stragglers into the room. Not that Nate needed it—he'd calmed down after that first incandescent flash of rage. As long as they didn't allow any more goals, Nate would be okay.

"Fuck off," Nate whispered, bumping Tyson so hard he nearly knocked him off balance.

Nate sat in Gabe's stall, Tyson sat in his own. Gabe was slumped in Nate's spot, staring moodily into the middle distance as Bednar started speaking. Bourque still looked like death, but Tyson would get to him later. Everyone else seemed okay. Everyone else followed Bednar's speech with eyes up, clear and focused.

Bednar wasn't pissed, it turned out. He was placid and determined, and he laid out what had gone wrong in neat, simple terms without getting bogged down in blame. The boys looked heartened as he spoke. The panic of those first few minutes was gone; a one goal deficit was nothing. They had overcome much worse than a measly one goal lead.

Intermission seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Tyson barely had time to gulp water, show his stinging left wrist to a trainer ("Good to go," the trainer promised, as he rolled Tyson's sleeve back down), and take a deep breath. There wasn't enough time for anything else; soon the guys were coming back from the weight room or the trainers, eyeing the clock, powered up on nervous energy while the minutes ticked further and further away.

"Alright," one of the assistant coaches called out, "You got two minutes, boys!" Groaning, the team started regathering their stuff, stretching out stiffened muscles and centering themselves. Tyson grabbed his helmet and stood. Forty minutes, he reasoned with himself. They could win a game in forty minutes.

"Hey," Z said, to his left, startling him out of his reverie, "Where the fuck's Nate?"

Nowhere—Tyson scanned the room and couldn't find him anywhere. The real Nate was adjusting his skate laces, surveying every face in the room for any sign of hesitancy, but Gabe was missing. Tyson had a horrible feeling he was beating himself up in private.

"I'll go find him," he said, before anyone else could come to that same conclusion. "You guys stay here."

It wasn't strange. If it had _actually_ been Nate, Tyson would have gone and found him. It was just a part of the careful pretense they had to maintain, nothing more than that.

Gabe wasn't in the change room, or in the weight room. He was in the hallway, slumping against a portion of cinderblock wall, hair plastered against his forehead. His face looked crumpled like a dirty napkin. Tyson felt his heart squeeze itself forward into his ribcage as if seeking an exit point, stinging and useless all at once.

Approaching him slowly, Tyson watched Gabe track him with his eyes, all while not bothering to stand up straight. "Gabe," Tyson said. "Come on. The period's about to start."

Gabe did this sometimes. He didn't blow up publicly, like Nate did. He went away and self-immolated. If he wasn't in Nate's body, Tyson might have offered him a handjob in this darkened, empty hallway. There was no chance of Gabe accepting, but it might have made him laugh.

"If we don't change back before the end of the season," Gabe asked, exhaustion in his voice, "Do you think we'll be stuck? I'm getting really tired of being Nate."

"I'm getting really tired of losing," Tyson said, so Gabe would laugh, but Gabe didn't. So he tried for optimism. "It's not over yet, Landy."

"You're right, Brutes."

Gabe unrolled his spine and stood up straight, jaw clenching as he started to settle himself back in his gametime headspace. Tyson should have done the same—Tyson should be leading him right back to the ice, getting ready to go out and finally take control of the game. Instead, he hesitated. "I thought you didn't like Brutes."

"I don't," Gabe said. He looked at Tyson with a strange intensity that was utterly out-of-place on Nate's face. "I like your name."

Tyson had always known that Gabe didn't like that nickname. It was just a matter of personal taste. It didn't mean anything, even if Tyson very badly wanted it to. Besides, it could wait; the game wouldn't. Laughing, he shook his. "Don't get soft on me, Landy. Come on."

Gabe nodded. "Yeah," he said, sounding better, if still not quite himself. "Let's go."

There was a long moment, where Gabe was collecting himself like walking back out to the locker room was a Herculean task, where Tyson wanted everything to be different. He wanted things to be easier. He couldn't bring himself to regret following Gabe up to his condo that first time, all those months ago, but he would have given anything to make Gabe stop looking so drawn and defeated.

But magic didn't work that way. Neither did hockey. So he just nodded, and waited til Gabe had donned his helmet, and then the two of them went back to the rest of the team.

+++

"Gabe," said Bednar. Tyson jerked his head up from off his knees, flinging fresh sweat into his eyes. Bednar, looking tired and gray, gestured to Nate with an open hand. His post-game remarks were over. Tyson hadn't even listened. "Do you... do you have anything to say?"

Because they had lost. Again.

They'd been shut down in the second and then came out strong in the third—Mikko had scored on the power play, off an assist from Tyson. Then, even though they'd eased up defensively and let the Sharks score, Comes had cut the lead back down to one. There had been glimpses of something more, a real fleeting chance—but it was a mirage in the end. They'd coughed up three goals in the third, including the empty netter, and lost 4-2.

Nate, sitting in Gabe's stall with Gabe's C splashed across his chest, nodded and stood. He made eye contact first with Tyson, then with Gabe. Every part of him was still simmering with fury; he'd had to run his head under cold water after the final buzzer to keep from exploding. For all Tyson's careful preparations, he was reasonably sure he was about to watch Nate lose his shit at all of them.

Nate took a deep breath in and exhaled. "Okay boys," he said. "I think we can all tell that I got heated. Really heated."

In a game with lower stakes, people might have laughed. As it was, there was a single dry cough, accompanied by the rustling of guys stripping out of their jerseys.

"I don't think I would have been so mad if we hadn't been so close. And we were close. The power play was a lot better tonight than it was against the Kings on Monday, both power play units. We got some really bad breaks, but we wasted a bunch of chances, too." Tyson, who'd surrendered to Hertl like a wet piece of paper and allowed the empty-netter, winced. But Nate wasn't looking at him; he was warming to his theme, looking around the room, growing passionate with each word. "We need to do better. Comes, you did great getting to the front of the net, getting the tip-in off Warsofsky. We need more of that, more guys crashing the net. And Bernie, that was solid. Big second period, then we hung you out to dry a bit in the third. We can do better."

He wasn't going to explode. Somehow he'd accessed some deep well of patience, either his own or some borrowed thing of Gabe's. Tyson looked around—the team was hanging on his every word, the way they did when the real Gabe spoke. Even Bedar's lips were quirked up.

"We're really close," Nate said plaintively. "I know we can get there. We've got one more game to prove it. If we play like we did in the beginning of the third, we can do it." As if to underscore his point, he looked around, seeming to stare deep into the eyes of every player. "And that's three things, so I'm done."

He sat down with a loud thump and immediately began to undo his laces. Tyson had to stifle his laugh into his rancid jersey. Even in a perfect speech, Nate was still himself.

Bednar, nodding, took back the spotlight. "Well, boys, you heard your captain. We've got one more practice and ne more game to show what we can do. Let's do it." Out of the corner of his eye, Tyson saw Bednar shoot Nate a rare, genuine smile.

Tyson got stuck doing press. Lauren was a good sport about it and kept her questions brief, but it felt like eons before he was allowed to go find Nate. Then it was longer before Nate finished his own interview, and by that time half the team had already cycled through the weight room and into the showers. Tyson didn't give a shit that they were already running behind; the minute Nate walked in he threw his arms around him.

"You did really, really good," he said, ignoring the sweat gluing them together every place their skin touched. He could feel Nate swell with pride.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. That was perfect," Tyson said, releasing him at last. "Gabe couldn't have done any better."

Nate didn't look like he believed it, but luckily he didn't have to stand on just Tyson's words. As Tyson reassured him, the door opened again, and Gabe came through the door. He immediately hugged Nate too.

"That was really good," he said. His voice was somewhat muffled by Nate's shoulder—Tyson wondered how freaky it was to hug your own body. Neither Gabe nor Nate seemed too distressed by it, however. "Just what I would have done. Better, even."

Decidedly pink, Nate looked down at the ground and scuffed his slides against the floor. "Thanks Gabe. I... I know I suck at this. But I want to do you proud."

"Fuck that," Gabe said. "I'm proud already. This situation is insane, but we're good, you know? We're incredible."

"I'm just regular," Tyson said, laughing hollowly. But Nate shook his head.

"No, you're part of it too." He probably meant it kindly, but they were all part of it, in a way. The team was about to start their summer vacation a few weeks early, all because of a random curse, given for no reason, utterly outside of their control.

At the other end of the room, Nietsy was finishing up a set of pull-ups, and Bourque was on the bike with his headphones in. The door opened and closed as someone else headed out to the showers. There was nowhere to go, no secret room to talk about this. "What do we do?" Nate said, voice pitched low. "We're running out of time, we need to get this undone."

Gabe shook his head. "I don't know."

"But there has to be something. We have one game left. We have to get it undone."

Tyson looked down at the rubberized mat on the floor. "Maybe we should talk tomorrow."

Nate ignored him. Nate did that sometimes, when he wanted to keep going and Tyson protested that he needed to stop, that he was about to throw up blood, that he was only a human being—usually in the context of hockey, but Nate could be stubborn about almost anything. Rounding on Gabe, he said, "What do you think?"

Before answering, Gabe worried at his lip. "I think," he said hesitantly, "I need to start calling people. I need to figure out what I'm doing this summer if we don't make the playoffs."

"You can't do that," Nate argued. He looked between Gabe and Tyson as if he had been betrayed. "You can't just give up."

"I'm not _giving up_," Gabe said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "I'm making a contingency plan."

For a moment, Nate's face threatened another explosion. Tyson headed it off at the pass. "He's right," he said tiredly. Of course Gabe needed to plan. He needed to triangulate people across two continents. "Give him back his phone."

Nate protested, because he was Nate. They did a quick, basic workout, because they'd all logged long minutes on the ice—Tyson had played nearly a half hour, which he'd surely be feeling tomorrow—and Nate continued, in undertones, to make his case. Tyson listened with half an ear. Gabe listened, but he didn't make any promises; he just nodded, an empathetic, understanding look on his face.

"We can't just give up, Brutes," Nate said, after they had showered and were racing to throw their street clothes back on.

"I'm not giving up," Tyson said. His hair was dripping, his lower back still damp enough that his undershirt stuck to it instantly. "Just, look at it from Gabe's perspective, man. It's one game. The odds are so fucking long, and we still don't know how to fix this."

"We have to figure it out. Why would this happen? It doesn't make any sense. Why now? Why right before the end of the season, when we're this close?"

He looked so frustrated, half in and half out of Gabe's fancy European suit, clutching at Gabe's rumpled tie in a bloodless fist. Tyson, sighing, peeled his fingers off the silk and undid the knot he'd tightened to a tiny point. "Okay," he said, "But none of it makes sense. None of it. So why not. Why wouldn't this happen to us?"

He tried to hand Nate back the tie. Instead, Nate clenched his jaw. "I'm not just giving up. Fuck that. We can still fix this."

"Fine," Tyson said. It was easier to give in to Nate's stubbornness. "Let's talk tomorrow, okay? Let's sleep on it, at least."

It mollified Nate; with a sigh, he finally let his shoulders down from where they'd been, tensed around his ears. He also finally accepted Gabe's tie and threw it around his neck. The silk was crumpled and the knot askew, but it didn't matter. In the grand scheme of things, Nate's necktie mattered not at all.

No one spoke as they boarded the plane. Everyone, it seemed, just wanted to fall asleep. There was almost no chatter as they took off, only hushed conversations. As soon as they reached cruising altitude, Z laid down in the middle of the aisle, head on his wadded-up suit jacket; the assistant coaches' lips pursed and turned white, but nobody stopped him. Every spare seat had been colonized by guys trying to spread out. Only the rookies seemed to be in their usual seats with their usual seatmates.

Even Tyson was alone. Gabe had claimed an empty row, vacated by one of their usual beat reporters, and curled up in it sideways, playing with the phone he hadn't had access to all week. Nate was sitting somewhere else too. Gloom seemed to weigh on the whole team as they sat in collective silence. Not defeat—not yet. It wasn't as bad as the utter hopelessness that had suffused them at the end of last season, but it didn't feel positive, either. Nate's speech had buoyed them temporarily, but their window was vanishingly small, and some optimistic words couldn't change that fact.

Tyson, alone in his empty row, did his best not to think about it.

Other than that, the flight was uneventful. Three hours later, the wheels touched down in Denver and everyone got up, blinking at the sudden light. The process of deplaning, of getting bags and luggage and instructions for tomorrow, was slow but familiar. They could do it in their sleep now: they'd staggered in from a late-night flight with nothing to show for it way too many times. Tyson, exhausted, put his forehead on Willy's shoulder as they stood waiting for the plane's door to open.

Willy patted him on the cheek. "Almost home, Tys."

It was bitterly cold as they crossed the tarmac to the private terminal, the wind howling in off the Rockies. Bednar, muted and placid as ever, asked them to come in at 11:00. Then the guys scattered, saying goodnight and heading home to sleep it off.

The moment Tyson stepped outside again, the cold mountain air slid under his collar, his sleeves, between the buttons of his shirt. His eyes and nose felt dry, like he'd survived a bad night of drinking and woken up dehydrated. He was realizing he needed to come up with his own summer plans. He couldn't count on a Worlds invite, not after carving his leg into confetti the year before. His parents would expect to see him, too. He'd pushed off the long, torturous process of planning his summer much longer than he should have, but win or lose, the regular season was over Saturday.

It was small potatoes to being trapped in the wrong body, maybe forever, but it felt nearly as impossible to solve.

"Tyson," called a voice behind him. He paused where he was, standing in the sodium-glow of one of the parking lot lights. Gabe was dragging along Nate's gear bag and struggling with the double doors. "Wait up a minute."

"What's wrong?" Tyson said. Just as he started to double back, to help Gabe with the heavy second door, Gabe yanked Nate's bag free. Tyson stopped short. Gabe didn't speak until he'd caught up with him.

"Nothing," he said. His voice sounded flat. Tyson didn't blame him. Gabe kept rubbing at his eyes, grinding the heel of Nate's massive hand into his eye sockets. Maybe the plane air had been dry. It had been Gabe's shot, blocked by Pavelski, that had turned into Tyson's defensive collapse and the empty-netter; maybe Gabe had cried in the on-flight bathroom. Tyson wouldn't have blamed him for that, either.

They trudged to their cars in silence. Engines turned on, one after another, as the team departed. The hush was strange and almost funereal. Tyson knew he was the person who ought to be breaking the tension, but he didn't know what to say. Instead, he waved grimly as teammates drove past them, blinding them temporarily with their headlights.

He'd arrived last for their flight out the night before, so his car was at the end of the lot, past everyone else's. To his surprise, Gabe ignored Nate's borrowed car, accompanying Tyson all the way out to his parking space, and then hesitated. He was chewing over something he wanted to say. Tyson said nothing, just loaded his car in silence.

Just as Tyson was debating whether to prompt him to speak or drive away in silence, Gabe finally found his words. "Tyson, wait."

As if he hadn't been. "What?"

"Can I?" Gabe nodded at the passenger side door. Shrugging, Tyson acquiesced, and they both climbed into the dark car, shutting out the residual sounds of traffic and rushing wind behind them.

Gabe didn't say anything for a long time. He looked straight ahead, the familiar, fond shape of Nate's profile only half-lit from a distant streetlamp. Tyson rubbed his hands together, watching Gabe ignore him. Nate's wonky nose looked different from this angle. Tyson waited him out, wondering if Gabe had spent his last few days catching sight of Nate's crooked nose from the corner of his eye.

"You wanted to break up with me?"

Tyson, so lost in contemplation of Nate's face, didn't process the words at first. When he did, he laughed a short, unattractive laugh. "Break up? Come on, Landy."

"I saw your texts, the ones you sent Nate," Gabe said. Tyson winced—he'd forgotten about those texts. He'd never meant for Gabe to find out second-hand. Gabe continued, still speaking in that horrible, flat tone, "I don't get it. Why?"

"Is that a joke?" Tyson said.

"Fuck you," Gabe said with unexpected venom. Startled, Tyson really looked at him, not just the body he was wearing but the person sitting beside him. Gabe was _pissed—_ his jaw was almost locked, and his right hand was gripping the door handle so hard he seemed to be trying to shatter it. "I'm seriously asking, don't do that."

In all the elaborate scenarios Tyson had prepared for, he'd never expected Gabe to be _mad._ He'd assumed Gabe would be relieved. Maybe temporarily annoyed that he'd have to find a new hookup, but mad? "Look," Tyson said, finding himself slipping into that easy, jocular tone he'd practiced on the way to the airport, "I completely get it. You didn't want anybody to know we were hooking up, and now everybody knows. Okay, fine, Gabe, like, no need, dude. Let's not make things harder."

"Who says that I don't want people to know? This is the first I've heard it was even an option."

"It's not an option. But you _don't_ want people to know. You didn't even tell EJ about us."

"I didn't know you had told Nate. You never told me that."

Tyson smiled uneasily. "Come on, Gabe." He was feeling desperately wrong-footed. Gabe was on the cusp of fury, over what, Tyson couldn't tell. Pent-up rage over the curse? "It doesn't even matter. I mean, it's not like this was ever going to work out."

"Why won't it work out?"

Again, Tyson laughed. "Jesus, Landy, you don't have to protect my feelings. I can handle it."

Gabe didn't answer. He flicked the passenger door lock, locked then unlocked, locked then unlocked. "You always do this," he said. He was still staring out the front window, at anything but Tyson. "You keep pushing me away, you keep moving the goalposts on me. I can't tell how you feel about me. I thought, when you said you told Nate, maybe... But then the minute you're upset or, God forbid, halfway vulnerable, you just push me away again."

"So what?"

"So _what?_ So, what the hell, Tyson? What are you scared of? That this might actually work? Or are you just too scared to even try?"

"There's nothing to try for. This isn't going to work," Tyson said. He couldn't just lug his unrequited love around forever, not even for Gabe. "It was stupid to even start this."

Gabe looked at him. He must not have liked what he saw. "Okay," he said, _"Fine."_ With that, he threw the passenger door open, so hard the metal rattled in its frame. The cold air rushed back in to fill the space his anger had taken up.

Tyson gaped in astonishment. "Gabe," he said, because whatever he'd said, he'd said something wrong. But what? He hadn't said anything untrue. He hadn't even said anything dumb like he usually did. And yet Gabe looked angry and strangely small, standing in the orangey glow of the streetlights in an empty parking lot.

"No. I get it," Gabe said, "I'll see you around." And then, before Tyson could think of any one of a hundred amusing, apologetic, self-deprecating things to say, he slammed the door in Tyson's face.

April 6, 2018  
The first thing he did upon waking was roll over and check his phone. He was, without being able to verbalize it, _desperate_ for good news. Unfortunately, he was out of luck—neither Nate nor Gabe had called. His phone was as silent as it had been the night before when he'd gone to sleep, bemused and still stinging from Gabe's fury. The single flicker of unlikely hope in Tyson's chest extinguished itself.

"Fuck," he said, and then proceeded to drown himself in the shower.

He ate breakfast in the kitchen, at the breakfast bar, because he could see the foyer from his dining room table. Last night, he'd set his suitcase down in the front hall, rifled through it for his phone charger and pajamas, then abandoned it there. It was still sitting there now, in the cold light of morning, mocking him.

Tyson wasn't touching it. It would keep til after practice; conceivably it would keep until after the Blues game, when he could just stuff fresh clothes on top of it and take it home for the summer.

That was why he was sitting in the kitchen. In the kitchen, he didn't have to worry about the summer.

Right as he was finishing his protein shake and egg scramble, his phone began to ring: Gabe. He ignored the call. He had no idea what their fight the night before had even been about, but his secret weapon to winning arguments was to never engage in them. Just because his feelings were hurt didn't mean that it was a good idea to engage in a long drawn out argument. Tyson didn't believe in groveling before an ex, even a quasi-ex like Gabe.

Gabe called back again, and Tyson sent it to voicemail. It wasn't mature, but Gabe needed to take the hint. The day before the most important hockey game of their lives was not the day to sort out their stupid fuckbuddy situation.

The third call from Gabe came as he was dumping his plate into the dishwasher, and when he rejected it again, it was followed by a text. _Dude STOP ignoring the dogg!!_

"Fuck," Tyson said, immediately calling him back. "I forgot," he said, when Nate answered the phone by yelling at him. "I forgot you switched phones."

"Well that's still pretty fucking rude," Nate said crankily. "Open your garage, I'm outside."

Nate surely qualified as one of the wonders of the world. When Tyson opened his garage door, there he was, leaning out the window of Gabe's car, glowering up at him with all the rage Gabe's handsome face could handle. He looked like he'd been awake for hours, and when Tyson let him in the house, he started talking the minute his foot hit the tiles.

"I have a plan," he said. "Did you make eggs? I want eggs. I can totally fix this, dude, I know I can."

He didn't wait for Tyson to shut his mouth, which had fallen open at Nate's manic energy, but marched through the mudroom and into the kitchen. He took his usual seat at the breakfast bar and, without asking, started digging through Tyson's fruit bowl. "So, look," he said, "The team's like, a little bit broken. I just have to put it back together again."

"What's wrong with the team?"

"I don't know. The energy's wrong." Nate cracked open a banana and devoured it as he spoke. "But I felt it last night, after my speech, and when we were dicking around on those scooters. Just for a few minutes. That's what a team's supposed to feel like, you know?"

Tyson was getting drawn into this logic, even though it made no sense; the lure of an explanation, even a flimsy one, was too great. "But you guys switched bodies after Chicago, and we had a great game against Chicago," he said, leaning his elbows against the island. Nate, grimacing, tapped the empty banana peel against the granite countertop.

"Yeah, I know. That was a really good night." Tyson agreed. That had been a fantastic night, on and off the ice. "Maybe that's not what caused it, that's just what will fix it."

"So how are you going to fix the team?"

Nate shrugged his shoulders. He was wearing one of his own sweaters, and it pulled tightly across his chest, distorting the letters of Shattuck-St. Mary's. He was probably getting as tired of being Gabe as Gabe was of being him. "We were great before. I just have to get us back there. Now can you make me some eggs, dude?"

"Maybe," said Tyson waspishly, as he yanked the frying pan he had just placed in the dishwasher back out again, "You need to learn some manners to fix the curse. Gabe isn't rude like this in the morning."

Or at least, Tyson didn't think so. When Tyson slept over at Gabe's, he normally woke to an empty bed, because Gabe always took Zoey out as soon as he woke up. He knew Gabe didn't want him to stick around for breakfast—their single fight over oatmeal had been proof of that—so he tried to time his shower so that he could be ready to slip out the door as soon as Gabe got back. Gabe was never rude when he returned with Zoey and found Tyson already lacing up his shoes, and he never asked Tyson to clear out. He was just awkward, slightly standoffish, as if he wished Tyson had already left.

"If he's so great, why are you ignoring his calls?"

Instead of answering, Tyson cracked eggs into a bowl, adding salt, pepper and garlic. "Oh, the usual. I want something I can't have." He caught sight of Nate's face as he dumped the mix into the pan, all sad eyes and downturned lips. "Don't look at me that way."

"Sorry," Nate said. "Maybe you're cursed."

Tyson, in response, threw an eggshell at him.

Even in Gabe's body, Nate ducked the projectile winging at his head as if Tyson had thrown it in slow motion. The white shell sailed across the kitchen straight into the windowpane, where it exploded, splattering remnants of egg white all over the glass.

"Real mature, Brutes," Nate said, looking over his shoulder as globs of egg streaked down the window to the floor.

"You started it!"

Nate did not accept responsibility for his part in the egg now splattered across Tyson's window. He did accept scrambled eggs with cheese, though, and then whined until Tyson made him a protein shake as well. And he backseat drove the creation of the protein shake too, breathing down Tyson's neck as he threw the ingredients together.

"Why did you even come over here?" Tyson said, as he shoved the completed shake into Nate's hands.

"Because you're obviously a part of this," Nate said. He sniffed the shake, but it must have passed muster, because he drank a quarter of it in a single gulp.

"Oh, I am?"

"Of course you are," Nate said. He had bits of shake smeared on his upper lip, spangling Gabe's mustache with pink flecks, but he looked serious. He looked every inch the captain he was pretending to be. "I don't know how or why, but it's you, me and Gabe that have to fix this."

"So you're not just checking up on me because I'm pathetic?"

No matter what Nate said, Tyson knew that this information could have been conveyed in a text. Or a phone call. There was no reason for Nate to be here, bullying him into making breakfast and getting underfoot. Other than the obvious reason that Nate loved him far more than he deserved.

"I don't think you're pathetic. You like Gabe, but he doesn't like you. Well, shit's hard," Nate said sagely. "It's just a lot to deal with."

Tyson digested that as Nate chugged the rest of his shake. It was a lot to deal with—and Nate didn't even know about his and Gabe's weird sort-of fight from the night before. But then again, Nate was going through his own shit, too. Clearly Gabe was too; people like Gabe didn't get that upset about being downgraded from friends with benefits to just friends unless they had something else on their minds. Last night couldn't have been about Tyson at all.

Despite everything else going on, Nate had come over. The day before the biggest hockey game of his life, his body still in someone else's possession, and he was at Tyson's breakfast bar, heckling his cooking and trying, in his own way, to help him the best he could.

"Thanks," Tyson said, staring down at the countertop.

"See?" Nate slammed the empty cup onto the granite countertop, making Tyson jump. He looked enormously pleased with himself. "I'm fixing things. I'm mature, I have _got this_."

The moment was over. Rolling his eyes, Tyson kicked the stool Nate was sitting on it; it didn't budge. "Very fucking mature. So let's go superstar, we're gonna be late."

Late for Nate, anyway. They had plenty of time before they had to be at practice, but Nate wouldn't be happy unless he was the first person on the ice. So Tyson dumped the dirty skillet back into the dishwasher and left the blender to soak in warm, soapy water, and then he made Nate go fetch his gear bag from the front hall where he'd left it. He was willing to go to practice an hour early if it made Nate happy, but he wasn't about to miss a chance to boss Nate around.

"Tyson," Nate hollered from the front hall, as Tyson poured himself a travel mug of coffee and then dumped sugar in after it.

"What?"

"Come here a minute."

Nate stood in the doorway looking out to the front door, where Tyson's ransacked suitcase proudly sat. Tyson had almost forgotten that he was living in visible filth, and he winced as he crossed the threshhold into the hall. Nate turned around, eyebrows so high up his forehead they seemed to be stapled there. "This?" he said. "_This_ is fucking pathetic."

Tyson resisted the urge to beat his ass. "Get in the fucking car, Nate."

+++

Tyson had humiliated himself in front of Gabe many, many times now. The first time they met, Tyson made a complicated, unfunny joke about Swedish fish that left Gabe—the teenage prodigy who was Tyson's brand new captain and happened to look like _that_—blinking at him. The fourth time they'd had sex, Tyson had gotten jizz in his eye and then, blind and freaking out, had fallen off the bed. Once, doped up on pills after busting his knee, he earnestly told Gabe he was the kind of guy Tyson could see himself falling in love with. Gabe had said thank you and then, mercifully, had never brought that up again.

Thus it was entirely on brand for Tyson, the day after botching their sort-of breakup, to eat shit in front of Gabe. They were running a three-on-three drill, and it was going okay. Tyson and Gabe had been cordially distant through the first half hour of practice, and Tyson had no plans to change that. Even though Gabe had found a breakaway, leaving Tyson busting his ass backwards facing off against Nathan MacKinnon's speed, Tyson believed he could survive this day.

And then he lost an edge and hit the ice, hard.

He jarred his elbow as he went sprawling out on the ice, legs and stick going everywhere. A moment ago he'd been watching Gabe in Nate's body, trying to sense which way he was going to go, and the next he was looking up at the fluorescent lights, the whole right side of his body throbbing with pain.

Gabe didn't stop the play. Nobody else did. Tyson lay prone, elbow smarting even though the pads had muffled the shock, for about two seconds, and then he rolled to his feet. His back was to the net, but he heard the _ping_ of Gabe hitting the post. He'd missed; Mikko and Sam hooted at him. Tyson skated back to the blue line and the rest of the team. None of the coaches said anything to him, but Tyson felt stupid nonetheless.

Not that he let it show. Josty said, "Helps if you stay on you feet, Tyson," and Tyson rolled his eyes at him.

"Thank God we've got you around, Josty, with bright ideas like that. _It helps if you stay on your feet._ Absolutely brilliant, you can tell you went to college." Jost laughed, unself-conscious, and so did everyone else, and everything was normal.

At least Gabe had whiffed the goal, for which he was roundly mocked when he fell back into line. He took the chirps without flinching, was in fact chuckling about his own mistakes. Whatever had made him so angry last night was gone. Since Tyson was standing six feet down the ice from him, it _couldn't_ have been him that Gabe was so angry at last night. It must have been the season, or the curse, or Tyson's bad timing; now, now that the shock had worn off, there was nothing to talk about.

Literally, nothing. Gabe didn't even ask if he was okay; his eyes glided over Tyson like he wasn't there. Tyson felt like dirt, like the lowest of the low.

Nate checked up on him during a break. He was trying to be captainly about it—"Nice moves out there, Brutes," he said, clapping Tyson on his good shoulder—but he'd been tracking Tyson all practice. Tyson had felt his eyes on the back of his neck every time they turned around. It was sweet, in his own, Nate kind of way, and Tyson didn't even have it in him to be annoyed.

"Just trying to give him a chance," he said, shrugging. The guys around him laughed. "Me versus Nate, that's completely unfair, what with my shutdown defending and all."

Nate relaxed slightly. He didn't seem to notice how frequently he bunched his shoulders up in Gabe's body; Tyson noticed, though. It had been getting worse and worse all week, until today, when Nate had mostly cut it out. Sure, his shoulders kept going up whenever he looked at Tyson, but for the most part he seemed calm. Zen, maybe.

It was hard to say why. It was a pretty normal practice. Sometime late in the winter, they'd started mixing up more games and made-up drills into their workouts, what Bednar earnestly referred to as "chemistry building activities"—really they were just dumb competitions, but any chance to win something was catnip to professional athletes. Nate was always single-minded about winning, but today he seemed way more laid-back about it. Practically chill. Even in the stupid teamwide keepaway game that he had invented, he managed to laugh when Z knocked him off balance and stole the puck. Of course, because he was Nate, he stole the puck right back seconds later.

Maybe he hadn't been joking. Maybe he really did know how to fix it. Tyson couldn't deny that the mood was light and easy, everyone flowing and laughing through drills. There was no hint of nerves to drag that airy cheerfulness back down to earth—except maybe from Tyson himself, who seemed to be lugging his own dark cloud around with him. It was rational to be nervous about tomorrow, but Tyson was, unusually, the only person who seemed willing to confront this obvious truth.

Well, confront was a strong word. He was trying to mash his trepidation and fear as far down as it would go, but he wasn't having much success. Not like everyone else, who seemed as calm as could be. Even the rookies were poised and steady, betraying no nerves at all.

Tyson wanted to talk to Gabe. Gabe knew exactly how bad everything was, and he, unlike Nate, didn't need to put the team's mood on his back lest everyone freak out. If they hadn't had that stupid fight, if they were just being friends who hooked up sometimes, then Tyson could have gone to him. But then, if they hadn't had that stupid fight, Tyson wouldn't even have all these stupid miserable feelings.

Besides, even though Gabe wasn't feigning bright cheer like Nate was, he didn't seem all that stressed, either. Every time Tyson risked a glance at Gabe, Gabe was looking elsewhere, but when he heard Gabe talk, he sounded normal. He was making conversation with the boys, focusing in on drills without any sign of restless agitation.

That Gabe was ignoring Tyson was definitely fair. Tyson had rejected him, after all. Gabe had his pride, and he probably hadn't expected _Tyson_ of all people to act rationally and consider the future. Plus, they both knew Gabe was way out of Tyson's league, so that had probably come as a shock. He'd get over it, though. Tyson wouldn't be surprised if he spent the summer banging hot Swedes and came back to Denver with no memory of their weird, ill-advised affair. Tyson could live with that outcome. He wouldn't fucking enjoy it, but he'd survive it.

Probably.

The locker room buzzed with noise as Tyson slid into his stall. Practice wasn't over—they had video review and strategy next—but there was something about the energy that reminded Tyson of the last day of school. It felt anticipatory in a way that it hadn't out on the ice.

Nate came into the room last, unsurpisingly. He marched straight to Gabe's stall without stopping to chat with anyone. His face was impassive as he put his stuff down in Gabe's stall and then began to strip his laces out. Everyone was still chattering, still moving around, but Tyson's eyes were glued to Nate. The minute Nate worked the second skate off his foot, he turned around and climbed onto the seat of the stall. A few people broke off their conversations, attention caught by this unusual behavior, but Nate still had to raise cupped hands to his mouth to be heard over the tumult. "Hey!"

Several members of the team startled; Nail almost slipped off the bench. Nate took no notice of this. Scowling, he dropped his hands to his hips. "Listen up, assholes. Everyone is coming to lunch. Everyone. No excuses. Meet out front as soon as we're done with tape."

Then he glared around the room, as if to challenge someone to argue with him.

Josty, unwisely, raised his hand.

"Uh, Gabe? My mom is in town, I was going to go to lunch with her."

Nate's frown deepened. He was teetering on the edge of the stall; it simply wasn't built to hold a hockey player still in most of his pads. "You can bring her," he said.

"Bring her?" Josty repeated, eyes wide, "Bring my mom?"

"She likes steak, doesn't she?"

"Uh, Josty," Tyson said, before the day descended into madness, "Maybe tell your mom you need to raincheck. Important team stuff."

Mrs. Jost was a sweet lady, even if she did refer to Tyson as "the other Tyson" right to his face, but it was doubtful that Nate genuinely wanted Josty to bring his mom along. It was even more doubtful that a civilized human being would want to slog through a hockey team lunch. A high tolerance for red meat and poor table manners was necessary for dining alongside hockey players. And who could be certain that nobody would try to subject her to credit card roulette?

"She does like steak, though," Jost said. At a pointed look from Tyson, though, he added hastily, "But you're right, maybe another time."

Nobody else complained. It wasn't their first team meal of the season, and hopefully it wouldn't be their last. Normally, they had communal dinners on the road, and normally Gabe informed them in advance, rather than barking orders in the room. But nobody cared—not even Josty, who immediately called his mom to say he'd have to take a rain check on lunch. Why would they? Anything Gabe asked of them, they'd do.

Gabe didn't seem at all unhappy by this change in plans. He ducked into his own stall to talk to Nate, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead, his helmet still tucked under one arm. Whatever they were saying, it didn't seem like an issue; Tyson could only see the back of Gabe's head, but Nate was smiling Gabe's easy, unhurried smile.

But someone had to be the voice of reason—someone had to double check that Nate wasn't losing his mind at the eleventh hour. It wasn't Nate's style to make dramatic confessions, but who knew what he might do, bodyswapped and vulnerable? After their showers, Tyson caught Nate just outside the locker room doors.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Of course I do," Nate said, affronted. "When have I ever not?"

Tyson didn't dare answer that honestly. Nate did plenty of things without a gameplan—barging into Tyson's hotel room, soaking wet and furiously drunk after jumping into the goddamn ocean, came to mind. Tyson, aiming for a diplomatic answer, said, "Just—you know. This is kind of out of the box."

"I told you," Nate said, "I know how to fix it. You gotta trust me, Brutes."

And of course Tyson did—it was Nate. He _looked_ like Gabe, standing in front of him, all Swedish and handsome and a devastating reminder of how badly Tyson had fucked everything up, but it was just Nate. And if Nate thought lunch was going to help undo the curse, Tyson would back his play, every time.

"Alright," Tyson said, resigning himself to his fate, "Lunch."

+++

Gabe had neglected to mention one thing to Nate that, in retrospect, should have been obvious: you had to call ahead when organizing a team lunch. Tyson knew this, in theory. He'd heard Gabe make reservations before. Gabe had even, on occasion, made a last-minute call, relying on a careful mix of flattery and name-dropping to get what he wanted. Nate, in contrast, had not even called to warn his chosen restaurant that twenty-five professional athletes were coming. The hostess's expression as the entire team filed into the vestibule was one of pure horror.

"For _how_ many?" she said.

Nate tried to smile winningly at her. She didn't seem to know or care who he was, or at least who he appeared to be, but she was not immune to Gabe Landeskog's smile. "Maybe you could push some tables together?"

The only reason they got seated—apart from Gabe's intrinsic handsomeness, even wielded inexpertly by Nate—was that the lunch rush was over. They ended up pushing seven tables together, making a single forty-foot long table that took up half the restaurant. Nate, still being Gabe, forced himself into the middle of the giant table and glared at Tyson until he sat diagonally across from him, close enough that Nate could keep a watchful eye. Gabe sat somewhere to Nate's right, close to EJ, their blond heads bent together. Tyson tried not to look over at him.

Willy plunked into the seat next to him. "What do you think you're gonna eat?" he asked in a bright, conversational tone.

"I'm gonna get whatever everyone else gets," Tyson said. There was no way a waiter would remember any special order.

"Lucky we have good taste, then," Z said, reflexively boasting because his mouth was open.

"Since when do you have taste?"

"I'm best dressed, I eat best food, too. I'm stylish."

"You're fucking delusional," Tyson shot back, with no heat behind it. Z was laughing, and everyone sitting around them was settling in. Z argued with anyone who'd stay still long enough; they were all used to it by now. "Stylish? You buy a couple plaid suits and you think you're fucking Versace over here."

"I like plaid suits," put in Gabe, leaning around Nate's chair to join the conversation.

Tyson bent his head to study his menu. Z, suspicious, said, "You don't wear plaid, Nate. You wear boring suits."

Gabe said something about trying to be more adventurous in his clothing choices, which was true of neither him nor Nate. Nate wore whatever his tailor dressed in him, whereas Gabe loved minimalist suits without ties and would never, not in a million years, buy a plaid suit. It wasn't in his nature. But it wasn't that deep—the trick with Nikita was to keep him busy so he didn't get into mischief of his own design. Gabe was probably just playing around. Tyson couldn't be sure though, because he was busy reading the wine list six times over, retaining absolutely nothing from it.

When he looked up at last, the plaid suit conversation had broken up, and both Gabe and Z had turned to other people. Tyson sighed and put the menu on the table, his plans to order the same steak as everyone else unchanged.

Willy nudged him under the table. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Tyson said. "Wanna split a bottle of red?" He let Willy choose which bottle rather than admit he'd been holding the wine list as a shield.

Seventeen of twenty-five people got the ribeye; four people got the porterhouse, three ordered a sirloin and EJ, just to be contrary, got a fucking cheeseburger and a plate of fries. He sat there eating his French fries while everyone else was enjoying steamed broccoli, looking delighted with himself. "I'm recuperating," he said, when Gabe shook his head at him. "I need the high fat content. Ask Bednar, he'll tell you."

"Maybe you should have ordered a glass of milk," Gabe said. He had already stolen four fries off EJ's plate and was eyeing the remaining ones covetously. The real Nate had more discipline than that but Tyson, who sure didn't, wished he'd been seated a little closer to EJ. It would definitely be worth the fine to snag a few. "The calcium, you know."

EJ burped in Gabe's face, and Gabe turned away to make a face to the rest of the guys. He looked at Tyson, but just for a half a second, long enough for Tyson to be reminded what he was missing. And just like that, Tyson was very glad to be all the way on the other side of the table. The several feet of glossy oak between him and the cool blast of Gabe's disinterest suddenly felt vital.

There was a high chance that Nate was looking at him sympathetically, so Tyson turned away. At the other end of the table, the rookies were naming favorite road trip and favorite goal of the season. Tyson tuned in, angling himself away from EJ and Gabe; this seemed way more fun than watching Gabe ignore him. Nail was talking, flushed with wine and gesturing floridly. It had been, he said, very nice to go back to Edmonton and see all the old sights again.

No one said anything at first, because Nail was sweet but demented. But then Nemo had to ruin it. "But Edmonton sucks."

"Hey," said Josty, taking genuine offense on behalf of his hometown.

Soda interrupted before a fight could take place for Edmonton's honor—which, what a way for the team chemistry to collapse out from under them, over Edmonton of all things. "Sam," he said, cutting through the chatter, scooping up Sam's attention and refocusing everyone else, "Favorite game?"

Sam pretended to think about it. "When Erik broke his leg, so now he doesn't bother me."

EJ had superhuman hearing, but only for when someone else was talking about him—his ears pricked up and he swiveled his whole body in his chair. "Traitor. I taught you everything you know," he called loudly down the table.

"Oh, that's why he doesn't know anything, then," Tyson said. EJ flipped him off for his trouble.

In EJ's opinion, he had taught Sam several things, some hockey-related, some not. He had to break off his exhaustive list when a server came by to top up their water glasses. They were mostly alone in the restaurant; the staff had clearly taken pains to seat the other patrons as far from them as possible. Apart from having their food and drinks brought to them, they'd been left entirely alone, a bubble protecting them from the rest of the world.

When the server had finally finished refilling twenty-five glasses of water, Gabe picked up the abandoned conversation. "So. What was your favorite game, EJ?"

"Oh, I liked when Tys high-fived a fucking puck and broke his hand, so I had someone to hang out with on IR."

Tyson spluttered into his wine glass, and even then Kerfy had to hit him in the upper back before he could breathe again. It was hard, after that, to muster up his dignity, but he did try. "Hey, man, if I hadn't broken my hand, that game could have been 6-3, is that what you wanted?"

"Dumbest fucking injury of the injury season, hands-down." EJ had a point—it had been pretty fucking ugly to get injured in a blowout win against the Coyotes and then spend weeks on IR. Not that Tyson intended to admit that.

"Oh, come on, Compher broke his thumb against the Blues!"

Tyson immediately wished he hadn't said that, because acknowledging the Blues existed, that the game tomorrow would come and they couldn't stop it, seemed to puncture that warm, protective bubble. All of a sudden nobody seemed quite able to make eye contact.

Then EJ snorted. "Well shit," he said to Compher, who was on the very far end of the table, just the shock of his red hair visible, "JT, don't do that again."

The St. Louis game had been one of their last games with Dutchy before he finally got the trade he'd wanted for so long. They lost—Brayden had come over with a bottle of tequila and put Tyson to bed before going back to his hotel—but it hadn't been so bad, really. Certainly better than their agonizing 0-7 loss to Vegas a week later. They'd gone on to lose to the Blues twice more, but their last game, just under a month ago, they'd won. 4-1. Mikko had had a four point night, and Gabe had blown Tyson up against his front door afterwards, and things had been blessedly, uncomplicatedly good.

Gabe, on the other side of the table, swilled his wine in his glass. "Remember that offsides review?" he said, apparently to EJ, but maybe also to the rest of the table.

"Painfully," EJ replied. The offsides review had been the difference, in that first game against the Blues, between overtime and a regulation loss. Mikko had scored to tie the game, late in the third, and then had it overturned on an offsides challenge. It had been hard to stomach.

The mood was starting to sour—Tyson could see the pinched expression of remembering goals allowed appear on too many people's faces. "Yeah but," he said, "You remember Kerf's goal in the third? Hutton completely fails to clear it and Kerf, you just rushed up and chipped it in?"

Kerf, pleased at the praise, demurred. "I don't know, I liked Willy's pass to Comes more."

"Shit, that was good too," Tyson said. He'd forgotten how Hutton had abandoned the goal twice and paid for it dearly. "Was Hutton asleep that game?"

"I mean, yeah," EJ said, "But we still lost."

Tyson didn't have a response for that.

At this point, Nate put his knife and fork down. "Listen," he said, with an oddly heavy intensity that made everyone, including EJ, look up. Nate must not have been expecting the entire team to give him their immediate attention, because he pinked up and shut his mouth. It was a long moment before he opened it again. "I want to say something to you guys."

Shoulders back, chest forward, he turned his head to glare, individually and collectively at the entire team. He was going to make some kind of speech, Tyson realized, with a mix of amusement and horror. Nate, oblivious to his distress, stood up. "We have one game left this season. And I just want to say this: I don't give a shit about the Blues."

Sam's mouth twitched at the corner, but no one actually laughed. It wasn't a laughing matter. Nate looked like the very idea of the Blues offended him. "I really don't," he continued. "I don't care who we're going to play tomorrow. We could be playing the Penguins, Game 7 on home ice, doesn't matter. I don't care if they come out tomorrow and score fifteen goals, we're gonna score sixteen. We can _do this."_

He turned and glowered around the whole table, fixing them with his intimidating, piercing gaze. It looked different refracted through Gabe's features, but was no less menacing. "Those of you who were here last season know how far we've come. When we were the worst team in the entire league, couldn't string two wins together no matter what we did. But we got through it. We fucking suffered and we put our heads down and we came out the other side, right?"

Several people nodded. Tyson was one of them. There was a pit in his stomach, just _thinking_ about the previous season. It had been sheer hell, for all of them, but maybe most of all for Nate.

"This isn't just a team, it's our team." Nate underlined his points by stabbing his index finger into the wood. Gabe would never do that; Tyson's heart clenched with affection. Warming to his theme now, Nate's voice started to climb as he reached the crescendo of his speech. "We built it, together, and it's a winning team. This is the team that goes out and wins tomorrow, okay? So I don't give a fuck if Gretzky and Gordie Howe are the starters tomorrow. We're going to win. We're going to clinch. And then, we're gonna win the fucking Cup."

He finished the way he always did: he sat down abruptly. The guys seemed slightly taken aback by this pronouncement. Quickest to recover was Mikko, who lifted his beer bottle high in the air. "I'll drink to that, boys!"

Tyson lifted his glass, too, and he even traded a few chirps while the conversation flowed around him, but he desperately wanted to pull Nate aside. When Nate got up, theoretically to go the bathroom, Tyson shoved his own chair back at the same time and followed him out of the dining room. The moment they were out of sight of the team, Tyson yanked Nate into a suffocating hug. "_Jesus Christ_, Nate."

"You liked it?"

Nate sounded relieved. Tyson had no idea how he'd come up with that, if he'd just spoken from the heart or carefully planned each beat. Either way, Tyson's chest was full to bursting with pride. "Felt like I could have beat the shit out of Chara."

Nate laughed. "I just tried to think what you guys would say."

"_I_ never would have said that. That was all you." Tyson shook his head, marveling at him. "Maybe you _should_ be captain."

"No," Nate said instantly. "I don't want to be captain. That's Gabe. I just want us to win tomorrow."

"Well, how could we lose?"

Scandalized, Nate punched him in the shoulder. "Shut the fuck up."

"Oh, you can say we're going to win the Cup, and _that's_ not a jinx?"

"Nate," said Gabe's voice, as he rounded the corner, beaming widely as he pulled Nate into a hug of his own. Tyson stifled the instinct to flee. Even when Gabe stood back, he was way too close to Tyson—there was a less than a yard of space between their bodies. Gabe gave no indication that Tyson was even there, though, his eyes only for Nate. "That was..."

He broke off, and Nate shrugged. "I know, it's whatever."

"No," Gabe insisted. "It was great. You did really great."

The expression on Gabe's face mirrored what was rattling around Tyson's chest: admiration, fondness, surprise. They both remembered Nate as he'd been, a prodigy, a cocky douchebag, a furious teenager who beat up himself and his sticks when things went wrong. But the Nate in front of them wasn't just those things anymore. He was a leader in his own quiet, forceful way, and Tyson could tell from Gabe's face how proud he was of him.

Tyson _had_ to get out of there. There were too many feelings, for one. For two, he couldn't bear being so close to Gabe. "I'm gonna—" he said, pointing back at the lunch table.

"Right, yeah," Nate said, still glowing under Gabe's approval, "Get back out there."

Gabe said nothing. Tyson preferred it that way. He slid into his seat and immediately rejoined the conversation that had broken out while he was gone. The guys closest to him were discussing the Knights' chances in the playoffs; Tyson lobbed in one disparaging comment about their forward core and they were off and running. By the time Nate and Gabe came back, Tyson had almost fooled himself into thinking everything was completely normal.

It _was_ almost normal. Apart from the bodyswap, the awkwardness with Gabe, his unrequited feelings, and the fucking playoffs. As normal as it could be, given the circumstances.

When the server brought them their check, unrequested and with a certain _please take your loud friends and get the hell out_ implied, she set it confidently down in front of EJ. EJ snorted and held it up to the rest of the table; EJ almost never paid, especially not when he was injured. "Who's paying?"

Everyone suddenly looked at their knees. This is why normal people didn't want to go out with hockey players; they were, as a group, terribly cheap.

After ten seconds of studied silence, Gabe rolled his eyes and reached out a hand. "I'll pay," he said, with his usual lofty dignity.

"No you won't," Nate said suddenly, "I will."

"It's fine," Gabe said, shrugging him off. Tyson could not tell if he hadn't realized he'd be paying with Nate's credit card or if he was just being a dick; it was hard to tell with Gabe sometimes. Nate, turning violently pink, shook his head.

"No, I'll pay, _I_ insist," said Nate, "I'm the captain here."

EJ was grinning like the cat who had gotten the cream, eyes flicking from Gabe's face to Nate's. Only the four of them knew what was going on, and no one else cared now that they knew their wallets were safe.

Gabe smirked. Oh, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Nate started to turn red at the hairline. "I want to leave a big tip," Gabe said very sweetly, making Nate swell up like a balloon.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Tyson said, snagging the bill out of EJ's outstretched hand. It was a four figure tab, but it was well worth it to prevent Nate from freaking out. "I'll fucking pay it, you assholes."

Nate sagged with relief; in contrast, Gabe's smile deflated off his face. EJ loudly told everyone at his half of the table that Tyson was "a perfect little gentleman." It wasn't a total victory, but that was okay.

Tyson was pretty used to taking what he could get.

+++

It was still light out, although the sinking sun had sent long blue shadows creeping across the living room ceiling. Tyson's hunger was warring with the roiling pit of nerves in his stomach. He was idly wondering how much longer he could sit there before his hunger overwhelmed his anxiety when his phone buzzed. Probably Nate, wanting to come over and bully him again. Tyson could hear his phone vibrating but he couldn't see it. Pausing the TV, he checked the kitchen, then the dining room, then the front hall. Only when he went back to the living room, wondering if he'd hallucinated, did he spot it under the sofa.

He got down on his hands and knees to fish it out. _Missed call from Gabe Landesnerd_, read the screen. The frozen TV dimmed to black as Tyson stared down at his cellphone, wondering. He didn't have to call back, of course. Their conversation in the airport parking lot was a fitting capstone to their not-quite-a-relationship, and lunch and practice proved they could be friendly and polite.

Well. Neutral. Not actively hostile, anyway.

If Tyson had ever had any self-control around Gabe, though, none of this would have ever happened. Gabe picked up on the second ring as Tyson sat on the floor, the couch cutting into the skin of his upper back.

"Hi," Tyson said. "You called me."

"I wasn't sure if you'd pick up," Gabe said, which was rich of him, since he'd ignored Tyson all day. "I'm driving. Where are you?"

"Home." The TV had switched to a screensaver. Tyson ran his hand along his thigh, the fabric of his jeans rasping with the movement. "What's up, Landy?" He didn't think he could handle doing a post-mortem over the phone, but he wasn't going somewhere to meet Gabe, either. He didn't want to go anywhere the night before the most crucial game of his entire life.

"I've been thinking," Gabe said. He had his turn signal on—Tyson could hear the ticking. "What if Nate's right? Maybe we need to fix this. Whatever this is. Maybe it's us, maybe we're the part of the team that's broken."

"That doesn't make any sense." The ticking of the turn signal seemed to bore into Tyson's skull. He and Gabe weren't a _thing._ There was nothing to set right between them, and also, since when did magic work like that?

"Well, maybe it doesn't, but I really don't want to be trapped as Nate forever, so can we try?"

"I think it's pointless," Tyson argued. "I mean, what would we even talk about?"

Gabe sighed, heavy with defeat. "Fine. It was just an idea."

Tyson hated the resignation in his voice. He dug his fingers into his knee, deliberating. "Wait, Gabe."

"What?"

He made the decision in a split second. "Fuck it," he said, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead as if to steady himself, trying to smother the part of his brain that was convinced he was making a terrible mistake. "Come over. You know where I live, right?"

"Yeah, Tys," Gabe said quietly. "I know where you live."

Tyson still texted him his address when they hung up. He had invited Gabe to his house a grand total of three times in the seven or so seasons they'd played together. Twice for holiday parties, and once so they could watch a Broncos game with EJ and Holds. And now Gabe was on his way over and the house wasn't even _clean_—his shit was still everywhere, including his suitcase sitting open in the front hall, socks and t-shirts spilling out of it like an oil slick. Tyson kicked the suitcase shut as he walked to the kitchen to check for signs of filth. The cleaning service had come through yesterday, so at least there was nothing moldering in the sink.

But—so what if there were? Why did Tyson even care what the house looked like? If Gabe required everywhere he went to be surgically neat, he'd never have lasted as a hockey player. Gabe was used to mess. He'd been to Tyson's hotel room plenty. He wasn't going to die just because Tyson had left a week's worth of junk mail on the island. All he needed to do was take deep breaths.

That, and accept the consequences of inviting Gabe over.

But if he wasn't going to clean, he didn't know what he was supposed to do with himself. He ended up sitting at the breakfast bar, fingers laced, waiting for Gabe. It was only a few minutes later that Gabe's headlights criss-crossed the front windows as he pulled into the driveway. Tyson, heart rabbitting in his chest like he'd just skated a full shift, got up and headed to the front door. His throat was dry.

Why had he done this? This was all so fucking dumb, so dumb, and he couldn't figure a way to get out of it.

Gabe blinked when Tyson opened the front door. His eyes flew immediately to Tyson's ruptured suitcase and the clothes leaking out of it. "Wow," he said as he stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket. Tyson scowled at him.

"Don't say anything. I'm having the worst week of my whole life, cleaning's not exactly my priority."

Gabe laughed. "Worse than when Nate almost killed you?"

"Much worse." Tyson closed the door behind him, and for a moment they stood in the half-darkness, the only light that from the kitchen. Then Tyson flipped the lightswitch by the door, and that threw the mess in the middle of the floor into even sharper relief. "Cute French girls felt sorry for me. I've been a minus eight this week and basically mathematically eliminated from the playoffs. Also, curses are real."

"Yeah, it's been rough for me, too."

Gabe followed him into the living room, still holding Nate's jacket in his hands. Tyson had no idea what the room had looked like when last Gabe had come over; it had been Christmastime, so there'd probably been a tree and decorations. Today it was just the way it normally looked, furniture and hockey gear and photos of his family gleaming from the mantelpiece. It was messy, of course, but it was mostly just Tyson, the way he was when he wasn't trying to impress anyone.

Gabe dawdled in the doorway, spinning on his heel as he took in the whole room. Was he admiring the space or looking for somewhere to toss his coat? "Don't leave anything behind," Tyson said, unkindness bubbling up out of him before he could think better of it. "I'm not allowed to leave stuff at your place, you don't get to leave anything here."

Gabe blinked at him again. "You're allowed to leave stuff at my place," he said.

"You always make me take it home. Like, if I leave a jacket or whatever, you always make sure I take it home again."

Gabe remained rooted to the spot, looking completely lost between all of Tyson's familiar things. Which was strange—Nate had been over a million times before. Nate had slept on the couch that Tyson was sitting on. Nate had _thrown up_ on this couch before. But Gabe, even in Nate's body, looked as foreign here as a lamppost on the moon.

"I don't want you to forget your stuff," he said.

It was starting to feel like they were having parallel conversations. "I thought you didn't like mess," Tyson said.

"I don't like mess. But I can handle looking at your jacket." Gabe squinted at him. "You know you're allowed to forget things at my house, right? Is that why you always clean up when you come over?"

It stung Tyson's pride, to hear it said like that. He cleaned up so that Gabe wouldn't fucking yell at him, not because he was some shy-ass twelve year old who thought people didn't like him. "You wouldn't buy oatmeal."

"Well, I don't like oatmeal."

"_I_ like oatmeal, you idiot. And when I stay over at your house for sex, I like to be able to eat breakfast in the morning, and you told me 'my house, my rules.'"

It had been a long time ago. Tyson hadn't forgotten. The fight had happened during American Thanksgiving break, when they'd decided that since neither of them celebrated, they'd better spend the holiday having sex. Somehow the topic of breakfast was brought up. Gabe, appalled, had shut Tyson's suggestion down with extreme prejudice, as if he'd mentioned marriage and not a box of Quaker. They'd argued, gone separately to EJ's Thanksgiving-leftovers dinner, and Tyson had solved the problem by not staying over for breakfast anymore.

Now, in Tyson's living room, Gabe stood gaping at him. That wasn't fair; it had definitely been Gabe in the kitchen on Black Friday, spluttering about the nutritional value of _horse food_, as he called it. That hadn't been Nate or somebody else—that was all Gabe. Tyson could feel his cheeks growing hot at the memory, and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

To his surprise, Gabe didn't speak, but came over and sat gingerly on the other end of the sofa. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was a really long time ago. I'll buy you oatmeal. You're allowed to leave your stuff when you come over."

He touched Tyson's elbow, but fleetingly. Tyson kept staring at the grain in the carpet. "Well, I didn't know."

"I'm an asshole," Gabe said, which, yeah, he was.

Rather than keep going, Tyson released the hostility bunching up his spine. "It's fine. I'm annoying, I get that."

"That's not it _at all_. I thought—I thought you were just picking a fight to be funny. Because you always leave as soon as you wake up."

"Well, yeah, because I thought that's what you wanted."

Gabe touched his elbow again, longer this time. "I never wanted that. Tyson. I always want you to stay."

There was too much... _something_ in the air. It was making Tyson nervous, the same way tomorrow's game was. Tossing his head, he said, voice as light as he could make it, "You didn't disagree, though. When I said I'm annoying. Silence is agreement, Gabriel."

"I like that you're annoying, though," Gabe said, scooting one cushion closer. Tyson's couch was old and saggy enough that it bowed in under their joined weight, just slightly; Tyson felt himself pitch towards Gabe. "You're funny. You're a good leader in the room. You really stepped up and took care of Nate this week, and I know that wasn't easy. And you help everyone. I don't know how I could have done this without you."

What was the weirdest part—Gabe being so earnestly nice to him, or that when Tyson looked up, it was Nate's face staring back at him? Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Tyson asked, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're a really good captain, Gabe," Tyson said. It was easier if they didn't make eye contact as he said this. He looked at their legs, almost touching, his thigh mere centimeters away from Gabe's borrowed knee. "And I'm not just saying that because we were sleeping together. You are. And I know we didn't make the playoffs yet, but nobody else could have even kept us close. You know that, right? We all love playing for you."

"So I'm just a good hockey player."

"Fuck off, Gabe," Tyson said, making Gabe jerk in surprise. "You're good at everything. I don't put out for just anybody."

That made Gabe smile, broad and terribly wonderful, even on Nate's face. Again, Tyson felt dangerously close to some unseen cliff. But right as the moment became intolerably fraught, his stomach growled.

Saved by the bell. Tyson stood up. "Enough mushy stuff," he said. "I'm starving. You want dinner?"

He offered Gabe a hand, a strictly platonic gesture of assistance. Gabe took it. "I could eat."

"You have to help, then."

"Oh." Gabe frowned. "I thought maybe you were going to order in."

Gabe was one of those weird people who thought the purpose of being rich was that you never had to cook. Tyson, as someone who'd grown up rich _and_ loved food to the point of obsession, despaired of him. "You can make a salad, Landy, I'm pretty sure of it."

Gabe looked just as out of place in the kitchen as he had done in the living room. Tyson, trusting him not to get into trouble, left him at the counter as he pulled food out of the refrigerator. He planned to do was sear steak on the stovetop, an easy recipe that he knew for a fact wasn't impressive. He threw the steak in a skillet, popped some rolls in the oven, and put Gabe in charge of shredding carrots for a side salad: easy, simple tasks. Nothing flashy. Nothing special at all.

They worked in a silence that would have been meditative if it wasn't so goddamn weird. Tyson couldn't remember ever going this long without saying a word to Gabe, except maybe during sex. Sometimes, while they were in bed, Gabe covered his mouth with his hands. Sometimes it was because Tyson's stream-of-conscious dirty talk could get embarrassing or make Gabe start laughing, but sometimes it was with intent. Sometimes he did it as a challenge, to see if Tyson could keep quiet. Tyson failed, every single time, but that didn't mean they didn't both enjoy it—

"You're cooking that too long," Gabe said, startling Tyson out of his thoughts. He stood peering over Tyson's shoulder, frowning down at the perfectly fine steak Tyson was cooking.

"Shut up," Tyson said hastily. "You wanted to order in, remember?"

Gabe rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he turned back to his salad.

Dinner was on the table in less than twenty minutes. Gabe, despite his preference for high quality food delivered to his front door, was perfectly capable of making a salad. It was still strange that he was in Tyson's house, never mind that he was in Nate's body, but it wasn't awful. Fraught maybe, both of their eyes sliding past each other, afraid to get caught looking, but not bad.

Tyson served the food. Behind him, Gabe fetched a pair of light beers and the end of Tyson's paper napkins. He came up behind Tyson as he was setting the plates down at the end of the island and whistled, long and low.

"Wow," he said. "That looks good."

"Thanks," Tyson said. It was nothing. They sat down at the stools on either end, the middle one—Nate's favorite place to sit—vacant between them.

"This is really good," Gabe said, a few moments later, still chewing his steak. Tyson, who was by no means a particularly gifted cook, resisted the urge to laugh at him. "Why don't you ever cook for me?"

Tyson shrugged and avoided eye contact. When on earth would he have had the chance? Half the time Tyson slept over, they were on the road.

"It even looked nice on the plate," Gabe persisted.

"Yeah," Tyson said, wishing desperately for a subject change, "Well."

This was date behavior, and Tyson had steered the two of them into it without thinking. It hadn't seemed dangerous when he'd started cooking—he and Willy hung out and made dinner together all the time, but that was friendly, all laughing arguments and earnest discussions about new music. Even cooking Nate breakfast this morning felt light-years away from this. How had he gone from not letting Gabe into the house to making Gabe dinner?

What the fuck had he been thinking?

"Seriously, Tys," Gabe said, smiling at Tyson, oblivious to Tyson's crisis, "You're really not half bad at this."

Tyson's whole upper body ached, as if his stupid heart was leaking poison outwards. Gabe had only come over for a single reason: to fix him and Nate, to fix the team. And Tyson had told him he didn't want to hook up anymore, so he was flaky as well as stupid.

They could sit here, and Tyson could pretend everything was fine and that they were more to each other than what they were, or he could finally cut his losses.

It was time to do what he should have done eight months ago.

Tyson put his fork down. Gabe, reading the change in mood, put his fork down too. He'd demolished his steak, leaving only a couple of wilted green leaves clinging to the plate. Tyson, in contrast, hadn't finished his food. He didn't feel very hungry anymore.

"You know what the problem with your plan is?" he said. "We're not broken. Maybe we shouldn't have been hooking up to begin with, but we stopped now. So we should be good."

Gabe folded his hands in his lap. His expression was unreadable. "Is that all we were doing? Hooking up?"

"Yeah. I mean, we're friends."

"That's all?"

Tyson's stomach hurt. "You don't think we're friends?"

Sighing, Gabe looked him straight in the eye, which was a letting-a-person-down-gently kind of move. Tyson braced for impact, but Gabe surprised him. "I didn't think we were just hooking up."

_"What?"_

"What do you mean, what?" Gabe had just rewritten the entire last year and was now sitting on the other side of Tyson's island, lips pressed together in mild unhappiness. Tyson, meanwhile, felt as if he'd been slapped upside the head. Gabe continued, "I thought you knew. Tyson, it's been eight months, I'm only sleeping with you. It's a relationship to me."

Tyson jumped to his feet and grabbed the serving platter. Gabe watched warily, as if he was scared Tyson was going to overturn the plate still sticky with sauce onto his head, but Tyson didn't. Instead, he slammed his own plate onto the platter, and then grabbed for Gabe's. He left the salad where it was and marched over to the sink, leaving Gabe sputtering in his wake.

Not that Gabe stayed put—Gabe followed him, obviously. He had the salad bowl in his hands, and all their empty beer bottles. He stopped to recycle the empty bottles before speaking, a moment of unconscious thoughtfulness that caught Tyson in the stomach like an uppercut. "Tyson," Gabe said, coming up behind him. "Come on."

"How was I supposed to know that?" Tyson felt like a wrecking ball. He didn't turn on the hot water so much as he hit the faucet with his fist until the water started to pour out. "You never said—I mean, you've been mad at me all week!"

Gabe's eyes flashed, but he kept control of himself. Instead, he held himself together with studied calm as Tyson started to scrape the remnants of his dinner down the drain. "Because you're the most hot-and-cold person I've ever met in my _life._ One day you're telling me I'm the only person you want to be with, and the next you tell EJ to fuck off, that we're not a couple. You don't even invite me to your fucking house."

"Then why would you—" Tyson broke off and pressed his wet hands to his temples. "Why do you even put up with me?"

"Because," Gabe said, through gritted teeth, "I'm crazy about you, you fucking idiot."

Tyson scoffed. Shaking his head, he turned the water off with a modicum more control than when he started. Gabe didn't laugh, though. Gabe just loomed over him, radiating dissatisfaction and annoyance, arms crossed over his chest.

Tyson had a horrible suspicion that he wasn't joking.

He looked at Gabe. Gabe just stared back at him, daring him to keep talking. Tyson wasn't Z, who delighted in looking for trouble, or even Nate, who'd never backed down from a challenge in his life. Tyson was tactical; he picked his battles. He could tell from looking at Gabe that this was not the battle he wanted to pick.

He'd wanted—he'd let himself dream for thirty seconds, back in that hotel room in Anaheim. But he'd never _seriously thought_—and Gabe had been feeling like this. For how long?

Gabe just stood there as Tyson loaded the dishwasher. It didn't take long. There were only a few dishes, and even when Tyson dawdled, the chore was over quickly enough. There was nowhere to go—it was his house, he couldn't just leave.

Another reason why they always went to Gabe's: Tyson didn't like to be somewhere without an emergency exit.

"In the nicest way, Gabe," he said, as he poured soap into the dispenser tray, "Do you have any idea what you look like? Because you know, that doesn't make sense, you waiting around for me."

It mollified Gabe, if only a tiny bit. Either way, as Tyson stood up, dragging his hands over his pants to dry them, Gabe cracked a small smile.

"You're hot too."

Blushing, Tyson shook his head. "Shut up, Gabe."

"Suck it up, Tyson. I like you. I like the way you look. I like everything about you."

"Shut the fuck up."

"No."

Tyson threw his hands up in the air. "Why the fuck are we arguing here? What does that say about us as people?"

"That we're stubborn?" Gabe's smile softened as Tyson laughed, but he didn't back down. He hadn't taken it back, any part of it.

Gabe stood there, looking like Nate but having just said, here in the kitchen, that he was crazy about Tyson. Crazy how? Tyson and Gabe had been friends for a long time, and then _this_ for eight months now, and there had be to real affection buried in the nucleus of both those facts. But that didn't sound like what Gabe meant. Gabe had thought they were in a _relationship,_ or something roughly equivalent. He was crazy about Tyson. And Gabe was looking at him, less angry than before, but no less certain. Something had clearly gone wrong, here.

"Tyson," he said. "Say something."

Tyson wished for a dish to wash or a pot to scrub or anything, really, to keep from having to look at Gabe. "What do you want me to say? You just drop this fucking _bomb,_ and you're still cursed, and the season's about to be over. What do you want me to say here?"

"How about what you want?"

He might as well have asked for the moon. "I don't know what I want," Tyson said. He put his hands down on the counter, shoulders hunched until his trapezoidal muscles bunched painfully. "I didn't fucking know."

Gabe put his hand on the countertop, wrist folded neatly into the musculature of Nate's arm. "Sometimes," he began, speaking slowly, gaze somewhere south of Tyson's eyeline. "I think you like me, too. And then sometimes I think that's not what you want, because whenever you say something nice you just turn around and push me away. And you never invite me over."

"I don't—I don't invite hookups to my house."

Gabe raised his eyes, staring at Tyson from the wrong face, but none of his meaning was lost. "But you invited me tonight."

"Yeah," Tyson said. He was caught. He knew he was. "I guess I did."

"So I have a shot?"

"I—not while you look like Nate."

Gabe's mouth turned up in a smile. "I'm working on it, Tys. Believe me. I'm working on it."

Tyson had one foot on a landmine: if he moved in any direction, surely he'd detonate. He'd just confessed something way too incriminating to ever gloss over. There was no turning back now—no matter what happened, Gabe would always know that he was more than just a hookup to Tyson. And if, when Gabe was back in his right body, he realized that he didn't like Tyson, would never want Tyson that way, Tyson was screwed.

He could never take it back.

He didn't know what to do. In general or now, in this moment, with Gabe still in his house. He didn't want Gabe to leave, and he for sure didn't want to keep talking about this, but that left them at a terrible impasse. What was he meant to do with Gabe, alone, except for sex? If Gabe hadn't been in Nate's body, Tyson might have jumped him, just to cut the awkwardness.

As it was, Gabe continued to exist in the kitchen while Tyson struggled to find something to do. The trash bag was only half-full under the sink but he took it out anyway. The chill of early April stung his exposed skin, but it didn't help clear his mind.

Gabe needed to go, but Tyson didn't want to ask him. He didn't want to do anything else tonight that Gabe could possibly read anything into, good or bad.

Tyson went back inside. Gabe watched him wash his hands and extract a fresh trashbag from the crumpled box, shaking it out and slipping it into the trash can. In Gabe's condo, the trash bags were neatly stacked in the pantry, next to the other household supplies. Tyson kept his trashbags in a random drawer, jumbled in with old keys and phone chargers and a multipack of Altoids.

Before tonight, he would have been embarrassed by that, but Gabe smiled when Tyson opened the drawer. He didn't look pissed at Tyson's unorganized kitchen—he was looking through the drawer now, expression fond.

Tyson shut the drawer with a snap, so that Gabe would stop making that face. "Now what?"

"I don't know," Gabe admitted.

Tyson figured as much. "I should sleep."

"It's early."

He was right; it wasn't that late. If Tyson went to sleep now, he'd wake up at six in the morning and lie there dreading the game and the end of the season for hours.

"Gabe..."

Gabe interrupted before he could force himself to say _go home_. "Can I stay here tonight? I just... I miss you, Tyson."

Maybe he did. More likely he was tired of crashing at Nate's, which, for all Nate's personal growth since rookie year, was still the functional, mostly-empty home of a twenty-two year old. He missed Zoey, or he missed his bed, or he just missed what was familiar. Tyson didn't know, but then, he didn't have a leg to stand on here.

He missed Gabe, too.

"I should definitely say no," Tyson said, still hedging.

"But?"

But nothing. Tyson had been doomed for eight months. Maybe eight years, if you counted all those early seasons he'd spent pining from afar. He allowed his heart to overwhelm any possible good sense and nodded. "Sure," he said, throwing caution to the wind. "You can stay."

He didn't wait to see what Gabe's face did—if he was relieved or happy or just performing politeness. Instead, he headed upstairs, confident that Gabe would follow. Leading Gabe deeper into the house, up to his bedroom, felt the same way walking down the tunnel for his first NHL game had. Most likely nothing would go wrong, but it could; Tyson couldn't let go of his fear. Gabe was quiet, a shadow behind him on the stairs, but it was impossible to forget where he was. He could sense Gabe looking around, craning his neck to peer down the hall at the opened doors leading to the back of the house—he'd never been up here before.

Tyson flipped on the light in his bedroom with a grimace. Thankfully, it wasn't completely awful. The bed wasn't made, but the sheets were clean. His suit for tomorrow was pressed and hanging, albeit hanging from the armchair and not in the closet. It was as good as it was ever going to get, and he told Gabe that.

Gabe smiled, wide and uncomplicated. "I like it," he said, touching the TV stand that Tyson had owned since he was sixteen, pockmarked and matching none of the other furniture. "It reminds me of you."

Blushing, Tyson avoided eye contact. "Bathroom's in there," he said, jerking his head at the en suite. "Let me just go set the alarm."

When he came back upstairs, the room was dark. The only illumination in the room was the faint ring of light around the bathroom doorframe, where Gabe was on the other side. Tyson stood in the middle of the room, looking at the closed door, wondering what Gabe thought as he stood in front of the vanity. The water was running, just audible over the hum of the furnace. Was Gabe looking at his reflection, Nate's plain features staring back at him, or was he surveying the trappings of Tyson's life?

He hadn't tidied in there either. His home toothbrush was probably on its side, haphazardly tossed on the vanity surface, bristles touching the white marble. At Gabe's condo, there was a green cup with four compartments, his toothbrush standing next to Tyson's guest toothbrush but never touching. Tyson was too rich and too busy to have a truly dirty bathroom, but he was suddenly afraid. Gabe had already seen so much more than Tyson had ever anticipated showing him. He would take one good look at Tyson's cluttered shelves or his bottle of antacids or the lopsided curtains his mom had hemmed for him, and decide that, feelings or no, this wasn't worth it.

The water turned off. Tyson held motionless as the handle turned and Gabe stepped out of the bathroom. He blinked in the low light, eyes slow to find Tyson in the dark.

"Did you need a toothbrush?" Tyson asked.

Gabe shook his head. "I just used yours."

Tyson's heart wobbled piteously against his ribs. To disguise it, he sniffed as he picked his way over to the bathroom. "That's disgusting," he said, but he didn't mean it.

Well, he sort of did—Gabe still had Nate's mouth, and Tyson didn't like the idea of sharing a toothbrush with Nate.

It was strange, albeit less so, when he came out again to see what looked like Nate lying on top of his bed, legs crossed at the ankles. But it was definitely Gabe, all right—it was Nate's ghostly pale thighs sticking out of his boxers, but he had made no move to get under the covers, even just the top sheet that Tyson slept under during the spring. Even in Nate's body, Gabe ran way too warm for blankets, and thus he was lying on top of them, blinking up at Tyson in the semi-darkness.

The TV was on, volume low. Gabe reached out, hand hovering over the remote. "I didn't know—"

"It's fine," Tyson said. He could have stood there ruminating on the absurdity of recent events, but it was easier to give in. Without speaking, he turned the bathroom light off and then carefully turned down the covers on his side of the bed.

Gabe didn't say a word as he slid in beside him, but Tyson could feel his body heat, even through the thin top sheet. Tyson wished he wasn't in Nate's body. For all the obvious reasons, but for selfish ones, too.

Gabe settled on ESPN—no hockey, but a solid segment about baseball, which Tyson didn't care about. He knew Gabe didn't, either, but it was fine as white noise. Besides, Tyson was focusing on the novelty of the experience: sitting up in bed with Gabe half-recumbent, letting sportscasters in a studio somewhere debate the NL Central, whatever that was. Gabe laughed at commercials Tyson had seen a million times before, and at one point he googled Viking River Cruises and read the pricing out loud. Tyson had to pass off a laugh as a coughing fit. It didn't fool Gabe, but it also didn't seem to bother him. He just patted Tyson's arm and kept looking at his phone.

Date behavior, again. Couple behavior, even—Tyson had done this with old boyfriends, amiably ignoring each other while their eyelids started to droop. He'd never done this with a hookup. But he hadn't initiated this cozy domesticity; Gabe had.

All their cards were on the table now. If Gabe was acting like this, it was because he meant it.

Tyson swallowed hard against the jagged edge of anxiety in his throat, gulping against the greasy pressure of his own horrible feelings. He had to turn away and stare at the far wall, willing himself not to freak out.

Gabe, always thoughtful, mistook Tyson's sudden aloofness for sleepiness. At the next commercial break, he turned the TV off. Suddenly, there was nothing to see, and Tyson was aware only by touch that Gabe was stretching out beside him, easing into a comfortable position. But he didn't seem satisfied. He kept moving around on the other side of the bed. Tyson kept his bedroom very, very dark and always had done—Gabe, in contrast, usually left a light on for Zoey. It had taken months for Tyson to grow used to it. He wondered if Gabe found the total blackness unsettling. Maybe Gabe couldn't sleep in a room this dark; maybe Tyson would have to get up and switch the bathroom light back on.

Behind him, Gabe pushed closer, close enough that his elbow brushed against Tyson's back. _Oh_. He wasn't worried about the darkness—he was looking for Tyson.

Nate couldn't be upset. Tyson had cuddled Nate in this same bed four days ago, he wasn't crossing any lines by worming his way back into Gabe's arms. Obviously it was all wrong, Nate's chest a different shape and size than Gabe's, but it was still Gabe holding him, and that soothed his unease.

Even the leftover spike of anxiety seemed to lessen. Which didn't make any sense. It was Gabe he was afraid of, but Gabe made it easier to handle his fear. As usual, Tyson had no idea how his feelings worked, only that they were big and miserably inexplicable.

He wrapped his fingers around Gabe's wrist. Nate's wrist. In the darkness it was almost unimportant. "I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

For everything. Tyson shrugged, unsure of how to put his feelings into words. "You really like me?" he said, without transition.

"I really do."

"But you thought I wanted _Nate?"_

It had been bothering him for days. Sighing, Gabe leaned his forehead against Tyson's shoulderblade. "I didn't really think that. I just wanted to know what you were thinking. You don't tell me _anything_, and it's like nothing ever bothers you. Last night I went back to Nate's feeling like complete shit, and you showed up to practice like nothing was wrong, and I—" Gabe broke off and exhaled, deep to the point it sounded painful. "I never know what you're thinking."

Tyson told everyone what he was thinking, all the time. He was twenty-six years old and had never learned to keep his cards close to his chest. Tyson had confessed his feelings to Gabe's _face_ so many times that their social media team had turned it into a running joke. He had been nakedly transparent in the kitchen, he had let Gabe stay over. He couldn't imagine being any more open than he already was.

Something sharp was digging into Tyson's throat from the inside. To distract himself, he drew an aimless pattern on Gabe's arm where it was curled possessively around his chest, tracing right on the knob of bone where his wrist and hand met. He never would have dared doing that to Gabe in Gabe's body, but Gabe had told Tyson he liked him, that he wanted to be with him. Tyson had let Gabe into his house and then his bed. Nothing was normal tonight.

"This won't work," he said, so quietly he was worried Gabe might not have heard him.

"Why not?"

"How many reasons do you want, Gabe? You know a lot of out hockey players? How about the fact that I might get traded, or that you're going to realize I'm not worth the trouble?"

"What if I don't care about any of those things?"

Tyson snorted, then scraped his thumb across Gabe's hand as if to strike out whatever he'd traced into his skin a moment ago. Gabe was delirious if he thought none of those things mattered.

His derision didn't deter Gabe. If anything, it seemed to encourage him. "Tyson," he said, reaching for Tyson's hand, pulling it free from where he'd tucked it under his side, "I think you're worth the trouble."

"That's really optimistic of you."

"I told you. I like everything about you." Tyson pressed his burning face into the mattress, even though there was no chance that Gabe could see. Oblivious, Gabe just kept talking, voice quiet but sure. "This could be good, Tyson."

"Bad things can still happen."

"Maybe they won't. We're not cursed."

"Well," Tyson said without thinking, "_You_ are."

For a second, he regretted being born. But then Gabe laughed, hard enough that he shook the bed. "Fuck," he said, squeezing Tyson's fingers. "You're right."

Tyson allowed himself to laugh, too. He hadn't meant it as a joke, but things were pretty laughable right now. And he and Gabe were in the same shit boat, stuck on the same shit creek. At least they had each other.

Neither of them spoke, and the quiet grew larger, until it filled every space in the room. Tyson's back lay snug against Gabe's chest, so he felt it when Gabe fell asleep. It happened all at once—between one breath and the next, Gabe was suddenly snoring very slightly, arm relaxed where it was still thrown over Tyson. Nate did the same thing, even in Gabe's body, his breath whistling through his open mouth when he drifted off. Tyson's heart clenched with affection for both Nate and Gabe. He missed them like crazy, even though they were both technically in his bed.

If they switched back, what then? It wouldn't fix their perilous playoff spot or the fundamental imbalance in their attractiveness. Even if their season managed to struggle on past tomorrow, Nashville was waiting, then summer, then his never-ending contract struggles. Gabe liking him back changed none of that.

But maybe it was possible. Maybe getting his heart broken wasn't completely inevitable.

Tyson swallowed hard. "It would be good," he said to the darkened room. It was like pulling teeth to admit that, even to himself. But he did it, as Gabe snored into his hair and the clock on their season ran itself closer and closer to out. "I think we'd be good together. That's what I want."

Gabe said nothing, because he was asleep; Tyson rolled over to check, but Gabe slept blissfully through Tyson's confession, mouth open. There was no rush of light or sudden burst of clarity, either, not that he had expected any. But still, it felt good to say. It felt honest. Maybe someday he'd even have the nerve to say it while Gabe was conscious.

Tyson wanted to kiss Gabe, but not in Nate's body. Feeling stupid, he kissed his own fingers and pressed them somewhere along Gabe's cheek, which was Nate's cheek, which he just could not bring himself to kiss in any romantic fashion. His fingers landed high up along the jawline, right where the stubble grew in.

Tyson hoped it would keep until they were back in their right bodies. He hoped he got points for trying.

For tonight, it was enough that he'd been honest with himself. Tomorrow, he could try being honest with Gabe. For now, though, he curled up in Gabe's arms and fell quickly and deeply asleep.

April 7, 2018  
Tyson woke up before Gabe the day of their game against the Blues, the last game of the regular season. Gabe was sleeping in the exact middle of the bed when Tyson woke up, limbs flung out like a starfish, blankets piled high around his shoulders. Tyson, meanwhile, was barely clinging to the outside edge of the mattress. At least Gabe looked well-rested; he was still so deeply asleep that Tyson could see his eyeballs twitching around behind his lids.

"Hope it's a good dream," he mumbled as he struggled upright. He felt fine, if slightly sore. He didn't have any particular ominous feelings, good or bad, which he took as a neutral sign of no portent. It was early to be getting up, but once roused, Tyson couldn't fall back asleep. Gabe looked like Nate, but other than that he seemed healthy and whole. Tyson had felt a lot more tender towards him last night, when he'd been sweet-talking him in his ear, than he did now that Gabe had essentially colonized the whole bed.

At least he only had to put up with him for one more day; Tyson thought this and then immediately regretted it. Nate would _kill_ him for being so defeatist. In an act of penance, Tyson decided to let Gabe sleep in while he took first shower.

Gabe slept like the dead, all through Tyson showering, brushing his teeth and even slamming the drawer shut after fishing out a t-shirt from it. Even when Tyson sat on the edge of the bed and shook his shoulder, Gabe just mumbled and buried further under the blankets, wielding them like armor.

"Gabe, come on," Tyson said. He was more amused than frustrated, but his need to repent his uncharitable thoughts was waning fast. Tyson's good character couldn't be counted on before coffee. "Time to wake up."

"Tyson?"

"Yep, it's me," Tyson said. "Come on, Gabe, we've got a day full of fun ahead of us."

"Oh my god," said Nate's familiar voice, high-pitched and shocked in a way that Tyson had heard once before.

Tyson froze, stomach clenching, not daring to move an inch.

At last, Nate sat up and pulled the pillow off his face. It was the same face that Tyson had spent all last night looking at; there was no visible sign of change. But Tyson didn't need Nate to say a word to know what had happened. Still frozen in awe, he watched as Nate reached up and touched his own face for the first time in a week.

"Oh my _god_," Nate said, in Nate's voice, in Nate's body. "Oh my god."

"Holy fuck," Tyson said. For another brief moment, he looked on in awed wonder, and then he tackled Nate into the mattress.

Nate wheezed, because Tyson had compressed the air out of his lungs. Tyson barely even noticed. "Tell me you're Nate! Tell me! Tell me right now!"

"It's me!" Nate yelled as soon as he got his breath back, voice equal parts relief and elation. "Tyson, it's me!"

"Oh my god, it's the Dogg!"

In the commotion, Tyson knocked Nate off the bed. Or Nate fell; it was hard to know whose limb was whose in those first few giddy minutes. Either way, they landed in a heap of blankets and elbows, Nate's chin in Tyson's collarbone and Tyson's elbow glancing off Nate's eye. Neither of them noticed or cared. Tyson was shaking Nate bodily, and Nate was laughing, and they were both definitely having an adrenaline crash at once.

He had no idea how they'd done it. Frankly, he didn't care, so long as Nate stayed in his own beautiful, lunk-headed body for the rest of his life.

"We gotta tell somebody! Who can we tell? EJ. I gotta call him. I should call Gabe, too, to see if—wait," Nate said, interrupting himself as Tyson scrambled to his feet and shook the blankets off, "Where are you going?"

Tyson didn't know how he'd waited this long already. "To find Gabe," he said, grabbing his wallet and his sunglasses from the dresser with shaky fingers. "See you at practice."

"Are you serious?" Nate demanded. He was still on the floor, looking outraged at Tyson's behavior. But Tyson had to go, and all Nate could do was yell after him as he ran down the stairs. "I'm your best friend! I'm in _your_ fucking house! Wait a minute—_why am I in your house?_"

He would explain later. Right now, he needed to go find Gabe.

He probably shouldn't have driven himself, but he managed to keep the car on the road. It felt like an eternity to get across town; navigating the parking garage beneath Gabe's condo took even longer. Tyson had memorized Gabe's elevator code seven and a half months ago, but he'd never once been happier to punch the numbers in.

The elevator _dinged_ softly as it arrived at Gabe's floor. The hallway was unnaturally quiet the way these luxury buildings always were; the only sound Tyson could hear as he crossed the hallway was his own heart beating. It was 7:12am, about eight minutes before Gabe would wake and take Zoey outside.

They'd had their own phones last night, before they switched. Fingers still trembling, Tyson dialed Nate's number and counted it ringing once, twice, three times. Finally, the line connected.

"Why would you call me?" Gabe said, raspy and sleep-deprived. Even though he'd been expecting it, Tyson nearly collapsed with happiness at the sound.

"Gabe," he managed to say.

"What? Tyson, what's up? Oh," Gabe said. "_Oh_. Holy shit. Where are you?"

"I'm outside," Tyson said, laughing with hysterical relief. "I'm at your front door."

"Stay right there," Gabe said, and then he hung up, and then Tyson heard, from his own ears, the sound of someone's heavy footsteps behind Gabe's closed door. Then there came barking, the sound of a key being fumbled in the lock, and then, Tyson's own private bit of magic—Gabe opened the door, phone still cradled against his shoulder.

Tyson stared at him. Gabe was wearing a sweater, sweatpants and ski socks—definitely a mystery worth unraveling, but later—and his hair was flattened in the back the way it got after he slept really deeply. He looked incredible. Tyson stared at him, wondering if Gabe always looked like this, and if so, how had he forgotten?

"You're you," Tyson said.

"Yeah," Gabe said. "Come inside, I have to let Zoey out."

Tyson came inside but didn't turn his head, unable to stop looking at Gabe. Gabe, the real Gabe. Gabe was trying to do everything at once: corral Zoey, run his hands over his restored body, stare back at Tyson. He wasn't successful. Zoey yipped and ran happily around both of them, delighted to have Tyson over so early in the morning. His apologies to Zoey, but Tyson barely noticed she was there.

"How did it happen?" Gabe said. He kept touching his beard as if to check that it was real.

"No idea. I thought you'd know."

"No." He shook his head. "I woke up when you called me."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but then Zoey barked again, as if to refocus their attention on her, and Gabe turned his head at last. "Sorry," he said. "I really have to—wait here. Don't go anywhere."

"Okay," Tyson said, but Gabe remained worried, forehead creased into a frown. And wasn't that thrilling, Gabe's expression on _Gabe's_ face.

"Seriously," Gabe said, even as he fished Zoey's leash from the entryway console table. "Don't go anywhere."

Touched, Tyson nodded. "Okay."

Gabe gave him one more wild look as he escorted Zoey out into the hall, but then the door was shut and Tyson was alone. In Gabe's apartment. That had never happened before, and Tyson took the chance to wander first into the kitchen and then the living room. Everything looked slightly strange, no doubt due to Nate's presence for most of the week. There were dirty dishes in the sink, jackets and socks tossed everywhere. Tyson crept to Gabe's room and found Nate's overnight bag on the carpet, only half unpacked, with dirty clothes piled on top of it.

Oh, Nate would be hearing from Tyson about that one.

When Gabe returned, Tyson was in the living room again, waiting nervously. He heard the doorway open and Gabe speaking Swedish to Zoey. Then Zoey rushed him—Gabe had let her go, and she nearly bowled Tyson over as she lept at him. When Gabe finally followed her into the room, Tyson was on his ass on the floor, with eighty pounds of pit bull squirming in his lap.

Gabe made no move to call her off. He was watching Tyson, smiling softly to himself—as if Tyson wasn't over here three times a week spoiling Zoey rotten. His smile broadened when Tyson extricated himself and managed to stand up, wiping his hands on his pants.

Neither of them spoke.

"Do you want breakfast?" Gabe said suddenly. "I don't have any oatmeal, but I can make something."

Tyson resisted the urge to make fun of him. "Gabe. I don't want any breakfast."

"Okay," Gabe said. Zoey bounced over to him and nosed against his hip, looking for attention. Gabe reached a hand down to pet her ears, but he never broke eye contact from Tyson.

"I should go," Tyson admitted. "I left Nate at my house. I don't think he's happy with me."

"Okay."

Gabe kept watching him. The mood had shifted. Or maybe it had been this way since Gabe had answered the door, and Tyson had been so blinded by delight that he hadn't noticed. Swallowing, Tyson made absolutely no move towards the door. "I'm going."

"So go," Gabe said, and Tyson heard the challenge in his words.

"Fuck you," Tyson said, and then crossed the room and kissed him.

Gabe didn't hesitate; he seized Tyson by the collar, jerking him onto his tip-toes to slot their mouths together better. He kissed Tyson like he wasn't sure he'd ever get the chance to again—maybe a sensible fear, given their last week. Zoey barked, and they broke away for a half-second. Gabe stared at Tyson's mouth.

Then Gabe said, "Bedroom," voice gravelly, and yanked Tyson out of the room by the wrist.

"Holy fuck." Tyson marveled at him as Gabe shut and locked the door. "What are you locking it for? Since when can she turn the door handle?"

"Tyson, if you don't shut the fuck up right now..."

"You'll what?" Tyson said, as Gabe backed him up against the door. He adjusted his stance so that Gabe could stand between his feet, big and looming over him, his beloved face contorted into a scowl. "Come on, big guy, don't get shy on me now."

Gabe searched his face. Tyson felt dizzy, knowing it was _really_ Gabe, the real Gabe. The wave of his blond hair, the triangle of chest hair where his sweater diped low against his sternum, his thighs and hips and waist. He couldn't keep his hands by his side—he had to touch Gabe, just to make sure he was real.

"God, you're so annoying," Gabe said, but his scowl crumpled into a different expression. "Don't call me big guy."

"What should I call you? Landesnerd?" Tyson pulled Gabe's sweatshirt away from his abs, just enough to stick his cold fingers in against his skin. Gabe hissed but pressed closer, until Tyson's hand was flat against the toned plane of his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants.

"You're a _brat_," he said. Tyson couldn't help laughing, but he quit fooling around and pulled Gabe's sweatshirt up and off. Together, they got it past Gabe's broad shoulders and then Gabe let it fall. He was shirtless underneath, and Tyson couldn't stop touching. Gabe's abs, the curve of his ribs—Gabe inhaled sharply when Tyson tweaked his nipple, just hard enough to sting.

"How about Landy?" Tyson said. His dick was so hard it hurt, but he couldn't stop teasing. Gabe rolled his eyes but blessedly pressed his face to Tyson's neck, nipping with sharp teeth at the pulse point in his neck.

"Just my name," he said. "Just Gabe."

Tyson could do that. Tyson could do whatever Gabe asked of him, so long as he asked in that deep, gravelly voice, still kissing up the side of Tyson's neck, pulling on the skin just hard enough that Tyson wondered if he'd leave marks.

"Gabe, then," Tyson said. And Gabe pulled back, to catch Tyson's eye, to make sure that Tyson wasn't still joking around. But Tyson wasn't. "What do you want?" he asked, reaching for Gabe's pants. Gabe hissed as he eased his sweatpants over his hipbones and down his thighs; his stupidly tight boxers concealed nothing.

"I've been thinking about your mouth for a _week._"

"That makes two of us," Tyson said. Gabe kissed him, but Tyson was still talking, even through the kiss: "I mean, not that _I_ was thinking about it, but I was, well, I—"

"Tyson," Gabe said. His expression was a mixture of fondness and exasperation. "Shut up and suck my dick."

Tyson shut up, because Gabe was hot and demanding and stupid and sweet, and Tyson would do anything he asked. He pushed Gabe back to the bed, gratified when Gabe went where Tyson steered him, and stripped out of his clothes. Gabe watched, eyes wide, as Tyson shucked his jeans and shirt, but he couldn't help laughing at his lack of underwear. "You thought I was a sure thing, huh?"

Tyson scowled at him. He'd tried to have sex with Tyson while _still in Nate's body;_ if anyone was easy around here, it was him. Gabe didn't seem repentant when Tyson pointed this out to him, either. "I told you," he said, shimmying out of his boxers as Tyson got down on his knees, "_You_ still looked like you. You don't know what you do to me."

"I have a clue," Tyson said dryly, picking up Gabe's dick. Gabe hissed, but Tyson followed his hand with his mouth, mouthing at the head of his dick. Gabe stopped complaining after that.

God, but Tyson had missed this. Gabe was such a restrained receiver of blowjobs that at first Tyson had thought he didn't like them that much, but over time he'd learned to read Gabe's body. Gabe kept perfectly still, apart from the odd twitch when Tyson took him deep or swallowed around him. He kept his hands on Tyson's scalp but never pulled; he let Tyson run the show. He was quiet, except for the odd, whispered _"fuck"_ or _"Jesus, Tys."_ And his dick was really, _really_ nice.

He pulled back to wipe the spit sliding down his chin. "You have such a nice dick, Gabe."

Gabe groaned, not in a sexy way, and tugged at Tyson's hair. "You are the worst."

"Maybe," Tyson said thoughtfully, jacking Gabe with his hand as he worked his jaw a little. "But I give great head."

Gabe laughed, but not meanly. He reached forward to touch Tyson's cheek. "You're good at everything, Tyson."

Tyson was, regrettably, in love with him, which was the only reason he didn't laugh around his dick. He made do with rolling his eyes and then went back to blowing him so he'd stop being so fucking cheesy.

After only a few minutes, Gabe's thighs were tight under his hands, quivering each time Tyson ran his fingers down the muscle there. Tyson's face was a mess, and his throat was starting to sting, but Gabe was so into it. Tyson hadn't had this in ages, might not ever get it again if they lost tonight, and he wanted to savor every moment of it.

But Gabe had other plans. "Wait, wait," he said, pushing Tyson's shoulder until Tyson sat back on his heels. "Remember that picture you sent me?"

A burst of fire ran across Tyson's body remembering that stupidly, _stupidly_ ill-advised picture. "Jesus Christ, Gabe," he croaked, "Tell me you deleted that."

"Of course I did. I meant—you just, you looked so good."

Gabe might have deleted that picture, but it was clear from the expression on his face that he had thought about it, a lot. A _lot._ Tyson felt like his feet had been knocked out from under him. He'd never really believed, until this moment, that Gabe wanting him was about anything more than convenience.

He took a deep breath in, held it and said, "Let me up."

Alarmed, Gabe let go of his hair instantly, but let his hands flutter over Tyson's shoulders and collarbones. "Are you—what did I—"

Tyson rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet, hindered more than helped by Gabe 's hands in the way. "Not like that, you idiot," he said, and then climbed onto the bed behind Gabe. Gabe gaped at him, but Tyson ignored him and got comfortable on his back. "Now get over here."

"You little shit," Gabe said, relieved, and basically tackled Tyson into the mattress. Tyson grinned into their kiss, and in retaliation Gabe bit him, hard enough to sting. Tyson hissed as his hips jerked up, rubbing his cock against toned Gabe's stomach. "I thought I offended you."

"How is that my fault, you drama queen—"

With another hard, biting kiss, Gabe swung a leg over Tyson's, kneeling up over him. Tyson's smart-aleck retorts died in his throat. He felt dizzy, almost light-headed, at the visual. Gabe's cock was still wet with his spit. "Yeah?" Gabe said, rubbing his thumb just under the head.

Tyson nodded. "Yeah," he goaded him, running his hands up Gabe's thighs, thick as tree trunks. Gabe made a punched-out sound in his throat and started to jerk off, hard and fast. He was close. Tyson recognized the signs. Tyson was growing desperate too, but he could wait. He could make this good for Gabe. "Come on me, Gabe. Just like the picture. I was thinking about you the whole time, thinking about you on my dick, you're so hot, you're _so_ fucking hot—"

He pinched Gabe's nipple, and Gabe gasped, his rhythm shot to hell. "Tyson, _fuck_," he managed, hips stuttering forward, and then he came all over Tyson's chest. Tyson kept his eyes closed but Gabe made these lightning-hot noises, trembling choked off gasps as he finished, and Tyson's own abs clenched in desperate arousal.

Finally, Gabe was done. Tyson was fucking filthy, covered in Gabe's come from throat to navel. Gabe exhaled and then pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Tyson's jaw, sloppy but tender. "Tyson. Open your eyes."

Tyson didn't dare. When he finally risked it, Gabe was looking at him like—Tyson had to shut his eyes again. He couldn't handle it. Gabe scooted further down his body, his ass rubbing against Tyson's dick, the friction so good that Tyson whimpered involuntarily.

"Can I blow you?" Gabe said, one big hand curled over Tyson's hip. Tyson nearly laughed out loud, although without any humor.

"_Yes_, you moron, of course you can," he said. Gabe _did_ laugh, which was rude, but he also took Tyson's dick down to the root, with absolutely no warning. Tyson's eyes flew open. "Jesus, Gabe!"

It was going to be over fast. Gabe wasn't trying for finesse, and Tyson was an absolute mess, covered in his come, claimed by him. Gabe pinned him by the hips and deep-throated him, holding him in place so that Tyson couldn't even buck his hips like he wanted. Tyson, who wasn't nearly as polite as Gabe, dug his fingers into Gabe's hair and _yanked_. Gabe moaned, almost pained, around Tyson's dick, and then reached out to grab both of Tyson's wrists and pin them to his stomach.

"Sorry, sorry," Tyson gasped. His thighs were jumping and his feet were slipping on Gabe's expensive silk sheets. Gabe elbow was pinned across his thigh, a bright spot of pain contrasted to the wet heat of his mouth, and Tyson was definitely going to come. "Gabe, stop, stop, I'm gonna come—"

Gabe finished him with his hand, and Tyson came all over his own chest. About one second after his jizz hit his collarbone, Tyson was sure that Gabe had planned it this way. Which was pretty hot, in its own twisted way. Tyson wasn't super into the visual, but he got the appeal of it in a symbolic way.

However, as he started to come down, he felt sticky. Wrung-out, completely blissful, but sticky.

"I'm disgusting," he said. He yanked up on a corner of the flat sheet and dabbed at his stomach, where Gabe's come was already starting to dry out. Gabe, languid and sex-dumb, just flopped down next to him, his chin propped up on his outstretched arms, watching Tyson through half-opened eyes.

"I like it," he said, pressing a kiss to Tyson's shoulder. Of course he did, it had been his stupid fantasy. Tyson, blushing and scowling, shook his head.

"I'm getting a towel. Or two. Or three."

Gabe didn't move, not even when Tyson gave up and turned the shower on and rinsed off. When he came back, still naked but toweling off, Gabe was still lying on his stomach, his back one long, unbroken line that met the swell of his ass and then tapered down to his thighs. After a long look, Tyson finally dragged his eyes back up to Gabe's face. Gabe, smiling, patted the bed invitingly. Tyson, feeling only slightly stupid, joined him, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

"You know you came when I told you you were hot, right," he said, as he got settled. Gabe laughed into the mattress. "I'm just saying. There's narcissism, and then there's that."

It was well and truly morning now; Tyson could tell, from the glint of sunshine on the windowsill and the sound of Zoey snuffling in the other room, wanting attention again. On this side of his orgasm, this whole thing was starting to look like a bad idea. Tyson had been dazzled twice, first by Gabe saying everything he'd wanted to hear last night, and then Gabe being in his own body again. But even if the curse had vanished overnight, all the reasons he and Gabe together were a bad idea hadn't.

Gabe didn't appear to be worrying, about that or anything. Instead, he rolled onto his side and put a hand on Tyson's ankle. "Stay for breakfast," he said. "I'll make you anything you want. Tell me how to make oatmeal, I'll do it."

Tyson laughed uneasily. "I can't. We have a game." Gabe squinted at him. The game was hours and hours away. They didn't even have to be at practice until ten. Tyson shrugged and gently pushed a wayward lock of Gabe's hair off his face. "I have stuff to do."

Gabe's expression softened. "Stay for five more minutes, then."

Tyson never needed much convincing. "Okay," he said, and Gabe smiled like the sun coming up, and Tyson's heart ached all over again.

Gabe kept looking at him as he laid down next to him, still all warm and tenderhearted, and Tyson wanted him to stop. More than that, though, he wanted to kiss Gabe—the urge hadn't lessened in any appreciable way. He didn't have to wait, though, so he rolled over and put a hand on the curve of Gabe's jaw, tipping his head down. Gabe laughed, a breathless puff of air, but he kissed back just as eagerly, and Tyson wanted to drown in this moment.

He pulled back to breathe. Gabe watched him, the bright blue of his eyes standing out against his thick gold lashes. For all that the kiss had been slow and gentle, Tyson's chest was heaving like he'd sprinted a shift. Gabe didn't press, just let his eyes wander over Tyson, expression reverent, like he was the best thing that Gabe had ever seen.

_Shit._ This had all been a mistake. How could Tyson have fallen immediately into Gabe's bed, when he still needed to be done with this? Just because he wanted Gabe didn't mean he would get to keep him. Being honest with himself was a sign of maturity, but so was being realistic. Tyson had tripped headlong back into a fantasy. It would never work between them, even if Gabe thought he liked Tyson. Tyson just wasn't the kind of person who got a fairytale ending.

"Tyson... Are you..."

He shook his head. "We can't do this right now," he said, pushing all of that away. Later. Tonight, after the game, he'd break up with Gabe for real this time. He could do it. "We have to go to practice."

"Oh right, hockey. Screw that," Gabe said. He kissed Tyson again, still slow and unhurried. Tyson smiled despite himself.

"If I really thought you meant that, I'd have you committed."

"You're right, I don't mean that," Gabe said. He—or Nate—had done a really shitty job shaving the edges of his beard, and Tyson could feel the buzz of his stubble rasping against the soft places of his throat. "But who cares if we're late, just this once?"

Just this once had a way of becoming just two times, then three, then it was eight months later, you were in love with your captain, had helped him get back into his right body and still had to break up with him, for both of your sakes. Tyson had been down this road before.

He caught Gabe's face between his hands and kissed him. "Come on," he said. He wasn't about to borrow trouble, and they still had the most important game of their lives to play. "Let's go beat the Blues."

+++

Tyson drove home, his mood alternately soaring and plummeting every couple of blocks. It was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but he'd enjoyed every moment of it. Gabe had barely let him go—they'd stood at his front door making out like teenagers, Gabe carefully raising Tyson's chin to kiss him and Tyson nearly ripping his clothes off all over again—and that was a massive fucking problem. By the time he'd gathered his shit and hightailed it back across town to the practice rink, his brain was like an overturned jar of marbles. His anxiety over the Blues game was nearly inconsequential in comparison.

Nearly. Not quite. The entrance to the rink was decked out with banners and signs advertising the final game of the season, that stupid musical note logo splashed all over the place. Tyson scowled up at them. As he walked in, his favorite security guard told him to break a leg. It was nothing unusual—the guy wished him well before every game—but Tyson felt an answering spike of queasiness anyway. Just because Nate and Gabe had switched back didn't mean that they weren't still on some magical entity's shit list.

EJ, who literally had nothing better to do, was waiting for him in the hallway outside the player's lounge. He raised one crutch and pointed it accusingly at Tyson, holding it like a rifle and tracking his progress down the hallway. "Ah," EJ said. He narrowed his eyes dramatically. "You did it."

Astonished, Tyson stopped in his tracks. "How can you tell?"

"It's your aura, Tyson. Your aura has definitely shifted." At last, he lowered the crutch and his face split into a grin. "Nah, just kidding, Nate's here."

As if summoned by the sound of his name, Nate kicked the locker room door open. "Tyson!"

"Also," EJ added, "He is pissed."

Yes, Nate was pissed. Nate was puffed up to his full size, all two hundred and some pounds of him quivering with rage. Tyson had the good sense to be wary, because Nate was _furious,_ but the larger part of him was absolutely delighted. It was Nate, suited up in his leggings and half of his pads, neck and face going splotchy with anger, just Nate, unquestionably himself. Annoyingly, Tyson was kind of thrilled. And not just because dealing with an irate Nate left no space for worrying, either about Gabe or the Blues or any other thing.

"I had to go see Gabe," he said, raising his hands in supplication. Nate narrowed his eyes at him. "Come on. It had been a week."

In answer, Nate yanked him into the lounge. The door, swinging shut, did not shut fast enough to muffle the sound of EJ laughing at them.

Nate glared at him. The lounge was empty and the lights were off, but the early morning sun poking through the blinds was just bright enough to read the expression on his face. "You're such an asshole," Nate said. "I spend all week in the wrong body, and the moment I switch back, you're thinking with your dick. Some fucking best friend you are. You fucking abandoned me!"

Tyson tried his best to sound contrite. "It was for a good cause."

"Did you sleep with him?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Tyson started to say, but Nate rolled his eyes so hard Tyson saw his whites for a good three seconds. "Fine, yes."

"When? When he was _me?_"

"What if I did, and that's how you switched back?"

Nate gave him a look that could grind glass.

Sighing, Tyson flopped into one of the armchairs. "No, we didn't hook up while he was you. He just... slept over." Which wasn't any less incriminating. Nate narrowed his eyes down at him.

"I thought you were breaking up with him."

"I am," Tyson said. It was not a lie. The joy of Nate being in his right body was starting to fade back to background noise, and the dull roar of anxiety was starting to creep up in volume. "I mean. I don't know what I mean. Nothing's changed."

Nate pursed his lips. "You let him sleep over last night."

"It wasn't—fine," Tyson said, because he had been about to lie and Nate knew it. "We talked. He said... he said he liked me."

Instead of responding, Nate continued to look at him, turning his head both ways like he was checking his binocular vision. That was his only reaction to Tyson's announcement words, which drove Tyson crazy. "What the fuck, don't just look at me like that."

"Tyson, of course he fucking likes you," Nate said patiently.

"No I mean—"

"Dude, I _get it_. I always thought he liked you, because I have _eyes_ and I've seen the way he looks at you. But you were just so sure that he didn't, I wasn't going to tell you were wrong. But apparently you were."

They were still just standing around in the dark, like idiots. Nate looked like an idiot, forehead wrinkled and eyebrows raised, a mixture of sympathy and encouragement stamped on his expression. He didn't get it, though. He didn't understand at all what it was like, to be Tyson, to be in love with Gabe, to hear Gabe say _that_ while knowing the whole thing was just as doomed as it had been at the beginning.

"He's the one who's wrong. We've been fighting _all week._"

Nate shrugged. "We had a lot going on this week."

"That's not the point."

"Look," Nate said, "I don't want to tell you what to do, but you've been trying to break up with him for like, a month now, and you made yourself miserable but you didn't even break up with him. Come _on_, Tyson."

In retrospect, maybe Tyson hadn't tried that hard. He could try harder. If he committed to breaking up with Gabe he could definitely do it. Sure, picturing it made everything look bleak and terrible and empty, but Tyson was a hard worker when he put his mind to it.

It truly sucked that Nate knew him so well. Tyson had barely thought the words when Nate reached out and clapped Tyson on the shoulder with a single massive hand. It was far more gentle than Tyson deserved. "You don't have to be scared," Nate said. "Gabe's a good guy. And you deserve to be happy."

"I'm not fucking scared," Tyson said, making no move to dislodge Nate's hand or to pretend he wasn't lying through his teeth.

"Okay. But you do deserve to be happy."

"I don't—let's not fucking talk about this," Tyson said furiously. It was insane to be sitting in the dark player's lounge instead of getting ready for skate, rehashing Tyson's romantic miseries instead of preparing for the most important game of their lives. He jumped to his feet, startling Nate into action, too. "Can we talk about the game, or the fact that you're in the right fucking body for the first time in a week?"

"Fine, change the subject, then," Nate said. As they stepped out into the (blessedly empty) hallway, Tyson caught sight of Nate's face: chin lifted, nostrils flared, overall smugly self-satisfied. He liked taking the moral high ground, and he rarely got the chance to; he was _delighted_ to have one over on Tyson.

Tyson squinted at him. "Stop enjoying this so much."

Nate snorted and threw the door to the locker room open. "I thought I was gonna spend the rest of my _life_ in Gabe's body, with you staring at me like I'd kicked your dog the whole time, sorry that the guy you like likes you back. Must be terrible."

"I don't know why we're friends."

"Me either, dude," Nate said, without heat. "Now get dressed. I want to practice one-timers."

Rolling his eyes, Tyson stomped over to his stall but obediently got dressed. Guys drifted in, saying hello, but Tyson didn't dawdle. They had nine hours for Nate to re-find his groove before the most important hockey game of their lives. Besides, Tyson owed Nate. For a lot of things.

EJ, who'd gotten bored of lurking in the hallway, lying in wait for unsuspecting victims, had moved to the bench. Tyson passed him on the way out to the ice, and EJ called after him. "Seriously, your aura looks bright and shiny, Tyson!"

"Fuck off," Tyson called back.

It started out as just an ordinary practice, if you could forget that the entire season hinged on tonight's game. Bednar didn't ask too much of them; he focused their attention on familiar drills and rehashing the newer plays they'd been working on. The mood was nine parts light-hearted and one part dread, which was frankly an optimistic stance, given their performance over the last week. It had been a tough time, losing games they should have won; it made sense that the guys were a little wary of getting too excited. The confidence they'd had in the steakhouse yesterday had ebbed, if only slightly.

But one crucial differences was immediately apparent—both Gabe and Nate were themselves again. Even if you didn't know why there had been a change, and nobody except the two of them, Tyson and EJ did, they were running circles around everybody on the ice. Even more noticeable was their attitudes. Bednar let Nate loose on a fast break drill and Nate was _thrilled_—he was back in his own body, lightning fast and agile in his skates and finally able to execute moves as quickly as he could dream them up.

Gabe, meanwhile, was so enthusiastic it was almost annoying. He was showing off, pushing Mikko over slyly and then dancing backwards, shouting encouragement. He was worse than Z—everywhere you went he was there, grinning so wide his face had to hurt. Their skate coach sent Gabe off to skate laps just to get him out of his hair a minute, but it didn't dim Gabe's cheer one bit. Tyson kept watching him out of the corner of his eye, unwillingly charmed by Gabe's ebullience. When he caught Gabe stopping to check out his warped reflection in the boards, admiring himself, he had to smother a laugh into his shirt.

Nobody knew what was happening. But nobody cared. Yesterday, Nate had told them they could win, but for the first time in a week, they were actually playing like it. The power play looked better than it had in a month; Tyson and the top unit were only out there for three or four cycles before Bednar called them off, satisfied. Even better, Bednar flashed a rare, actual smile when Nate ran coast-to-coast to score a highlight reel goal, top-shelf, in another drill; Tyson whooped and punched the air with his fist. Nate cruised back to the bench, grinning from ear-to-ear, pink with exertion and elation. He promptly disappeared under an avalanche of slaps on the back and congratulatory punches.

It was impossible not to be excited with the two of them on the ice, having the time of their lives. Their passes seemed sharper, tape-to-tape each time, and Nate was pulling off hairpin maneuvers like he was alone on the ice, no matter how many guys were guarding him. "Holy shit," Nemo said, in his usual flat tone, after Nate danced around Willy like Willy had been standing in cement and beat Bernie, blocker-side, "He's gonna win the game for us single-handed."

Maybe he was. Tyson's cheeks hurt from smiling. Nate caught his eye as he doubled back on defense, and he smiled widely before zipping over to cut Mikko off, forcing a turnover at center ice.

Tyson had been really, really fucking lucky when that teenaged freak had decided to be his best friend.

They met down by Bernie's goal so Bednar could talk to them for a few minutes, before they were released to go play made-up drills of their own devising. Bednar was happy—it was clear from his relaxed posture and the way his mouth had quirked up at the corners. "Well," he said, as they huddled together, "I was going to say something encouraging, but I'm not sure we need it."

They didn't. They were relaxed, calm, centered—Tyson's nerves had diminished to something small and manageable. Nate had convinced them yesterday that they could win this game, and they were ready to believe it. Bednar had a few things he wanted them to work on it, but it was a short list. "Take a break boys," he said, "You've earned it."

Tyson was skating back to the bench, idly planning on shooting a few more one-timers with Nate before tape review, when Gabe caught him. Literally, with two fingers hooked on the sleeve of his practice jersey. Tyson turned and wished he hadn't. Gabe, still breathless from his last drill, looked incandescently happy. "Hey," he said. "How'd we look out there?"

Gabe loved having his ego stroked, and Tyson knew that, but Tyson blushed for no reason anyway. "Yeah, you—you looked good out there."

Gabe's eyes were sparkling. "You too."

"I didn't—shut up, Gabe," Tyson said, pushing off hard so that he could put some distance between him and Gabe, lest he do something stupid like choke on his own spit. But there was nowhere he could go on the ice where he couldn't hear Gabe laughing.

He fled to Willy, of course, who was by himself towards the end of the bench, water bottle in hand. Tyson snagged the bottle from him. Willy let him, because he was the best. Only when Tyson finished drinking and wiped his mouth did he notice the way Willy was looking at him, warm with affection. Tyson, who had just stolen his water bottle and not even said thank you, _definitely_ didn't deserve that look. "What?"

Willy didn't say anything, but his silence spoke volumes, as did his pointed glance in Gabe's direction. "Guess you guys made up, huh?"

Resigned, Tyson took another sip from Willy's water bottle and spat on the ice. His cheeks were still warm. "So you know about that?"

"I feel like everybody knows, at this point. Sorry," Willy said, shrugging.

"No, it's fine. I mean, it's not—it's not ideal."

Willy rocked on his skates, giving nothing away. "Everybody knowing or the two of you?"

"Both?"

That made Willy laugh. Even Tyson had to smile, because Willy knew him too well. Everybody did. Tyson was as transparent as glass, to everyone except Gabe, apparently.

"When have the ideal conditions ever actually worked?" Willy asked, which was true but not the point.

"Well, it never works for me." Tyson looked away, back down the ice at Gabe, who was talking to Z and Comphy, smiling with all his teeth, warm and generous and open. His hair was messy but still perfect, and happiness was pouring off him in waves. It was still so good to see him being himself, just himself, and Tyson felt an involuntary pulse of affection ricochet up his spine like a firework. "I need to be smarter than this."

"Whatever you decide, I'll back you up," Willy said, bumping into Tyson, one long solid line against his shoulder. "But," he continued, "You should see your face, man. It's pretty bad."

Blushing, _again_, Tyson jerked his gaze away from Gabe. "Come on. I'm not that bad."

"You're kind of that bad," Willy teased.

Tyson, still furiously red, busied himself with adjusting the lining of his gloves. Willy, who was a troublemaker, looked over his shoulder and laughed. "He's looking at you."

"What are we, twelve?" Tyson snapped.

Delighted, Willy glided around him in a semi-circle, still laughing at him. "You look happier today than you have in months."

"That's not because of Gabe," Tyson said at once. "It's because until this morning, he and Nate were under a weird curse where they were trapped in each other's bodies."

Willy snorted in derision. "Oh, that's all?"

He didn't believe Tyson. Even after watching Nate, Gabe and Tyson act like fools for a whole week, it didn't even register as a possibility. Tyson was torn between being annoyed and being grateful; it _was_ the truth after all, and even EJ had finally come around when they'd ground the evidence in his face.

But this was easier. Willy probably would have been understanding about the situation, but he'd have questions about the moral and spiritual ramifications, which Tyson didn't have time for. It was bad enough that Willy was being encouraging and supportive about Gabe; Tyson couldn't handle him being encouraging about the metaphysical realities as well. Besides, God willing, the bodyswap would never be an issue again.

Releasing a ball of tension he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying in his shoulders, Tyson shrugged. "Yeah, I didn't think you'd believe me."

"Nope," he said cheerfully, "Sorry."

Willy was just so unfathomably nice. Seized with gratitude, Tyson threw an arm companionably around Willy's shoulders. "Don't ever change, Colin."

"Well, there's not really an alternative. Change is a permanent state of being."

Tyson didn't know if he believed that, but it wasn't what he'd meant, either. As long as Willy—and everyone else—stayed in the right body, that was good enough for Tyson. "Come on," he said, herding Willy back out onto the ice, and left the whole problem of change for a later date.

+++

After they got dressed but before two-touch, Tyson went to go find Brayden. Nate didn't like this plan, but he insisted on chaperoning him down to the visitors' locker room, glowering like a little gray storm cloud.

Other than responding text to Brayden's texts, Tyson had barely thought about the Blues at all. As a team, sure—they'd pored over tape and studied the spiky play diagrams the assistant coaches drew all over the whiteboards—but not as people. After everything, it seemed insane, somehow, that the Blues were just a bunch of guys in suits, drinking their coffee, walking down to their locker room.

Brayden spotted him and ducked out of line to pull him into a bruising, almost threatening hug. "What are the odds you take it easy on us?" he joked. Tyson laughed, although it came out wheezy from the pressure of Brayden's grip.

"Fucking zero."

He and Brayden only had a minute, and Parayko just waved, all blond and hulking, just as polite as he had been in Paris. The rest of the team nodded as they passed by. There was nothing special about them—nothing sinister or magical. There was nothing standing between the Avalanche and the playoffs now but 23 guys and 200 feet of ice.

"Fuck those guys," Nate said flatly, when Brayden had gone to rejoin his team. Tyson ignored him. They both had friends on the Blues, and Nate didn't have any actual animus towards the team. They were just the enemy.

Tyson rolled his tongue around the inside of his teeth as they walked back to their side of the arena. Nate had stuck by his side all day. He'd even come back to Tyson's for their afternoon nap, blessedly sleeping in the guest room so that Tyson didn't have to deal with him kicking. Even now, he was about four inches closer than necessary, their shoulders bumping on every other step.

Two-touch was just getting started as they came into the hallway, but they both skirted the game. If Tyson played today, he'd get overcompetitive and probably end up punching Z in the mouth. Nate was watching the ball go up and down, but he hadn't given Tyson any additional space. "Are you nervous?"

"No," Tyson said, quickly, as if saying it faster would make it more true. "Are _you_ nervous?"

Nate fidgeted with the bottom of his long-sleeve shirt. "I just wish I'd had more time to practice as myself," he said.

He didn't need it. Tyson had seen the way he'd played at practice, and he'd have put money on Nate against any player in the world today. "You're gonna be fine," he said. Nate didn't look reassured, so Tyson called in reinforcements. "Landy. Tell Nate he's gonna be fine."

Gabe had been knocked out of two-touch a few minutes ago and was egging the remaining players on. He turned, eyebrows raised so high they disappeared under the brim of his baseball cap. Tyson repeated his question. "You're gonna crush it, Nate," he said, walking closer. Which, Tyson hadn't meant for _that_ to happen. "We're all gonna crush it."

Nate was an inch shorter than Gabe but he managed to look down his nose at him. Tyson wondered what it was like for the two of them to be back in their correct bodies again. Were there some things they missed? Did Nate, for instance, mourn that he was never going to be that hot again?

"Yeah, but you don't actually know that," Nate said to Gabe.

"As my A, you should really believe your captain when he tells you everything is going to be fine."

"Fuck off," Nate said, voice a little sharper than necessary. He _was_ nervous, and for that reason neither Gabe nor Tyson called him on it when he stomped off. Instead, Tyson turned to Gabe and shrugged.

"I guess I'd better follow him."

Gabe nodded. "Back to Landy, eh?" he said lightly, but there was something self-deprecating in his smile. It was a jarring contrast to how happy he'd been, all day long. Tyson had no good answer for that and every reason to follow Nate, but he hesitated nonetheless, looking for the right words.

"I gotta find Nate," was all he could come up with. He couldn't break up with Gabe _now_. And Gabe nodded like he understood, although of course he couldn't.

"We'll talk. Later."

"Right," Tyson said. They would definitely talk, and maybe there was a chance Gabe wouldn't hate him by the end of that conversation. "Of course."

He wasn't being a coward. He was just being practical.

The progression of time had stopped making sense all together. It seemed like the next fifteen minutes of dicking around lasted hours, and then in a blink of an eye they were watching one last reel of tape, and barely a moment passed before they were in the locker room. Tyson swallowed hard as he walked into the room. It was just the same as any other day, but it felt like there were nails in his throat, loose and jagged.

"Don't be nervous, Tys," EJ said, from right behind him. He would be spending the game in the press box, with the scratches, but he'd be with them until it was time to go on the ice. He wouldn't leave a moment before he had to.

"Do I look nervous?" Tyson joked half-heartedly.

EJ said nothing, but in a very pointed way.

Tyson's stomach seemed, unlike the rest of him, disconnected from gravity. It was just sloshing around, not quite settled. The game was still half an hour away, but the minutes still weren't acting right. Tyson pulled his jersey over his head and they had jumped four minutes into the future. It wasn't magic, it was just nerves. Tyson had had bad nerves before—his first NHL game, he'd thrown up in the showers at the first intermission, terrified of making a mistake, and he'd made Factor hold his hand on the bench when Canada had beat Russia for the gold in 2015—but it had been a long time. It had been a while since he'd really had something to play for.

He made eye contact with Willy, who smiled. "You good, Tys?"

"Fucking right I am," Tyson said, forcing himself to believe it.

The rookies were chattering, high-pitched and buzzy, while the old guard like Soda and Comes had their heads down. Tyson looked around as he did his laces, trying to guess who else's stomach might be cramping up with nerves.

To his left the defensemen were talking, voices hushed, about their odds. "It's just the Blues. We beat them 4-1," Z said, shrugging into his jersey.

"And lost three times," said Nemo darkly.

"Shut up. Or I'll have EJ fine you."

"I'll fine him," EJ called from his seat across the room. Barbs, who surely hadn't meant for anyone to hear, ducked his head. "Seriously, who am I fining? I'll fine any one of you."

Tyson smirked to himself, but busied himself with getting dressed again. EJ wasn't kidding—he'd fine anyone.

It was a good last night. No matter what happened, they'd had a hell of a run. Last season, when Dutchy had asked for a trade and EJ had gone down injured, there had been no reason to hope. Not for months—just months and months of aching, awful despair. This year, Tyson reasoned as he taped his socks, at least they'd gotten close.

All they had wanted was a fighting chance. At least they'd had the chance to fight for it, even if it didn't happen. It was better to have loved and lost than to have slunk out without a fight.

Wasn't it?

Of course it was better to take the chance. Tyson didn't have to question it. During the Minnesota series all those years ago, after he took that hit to the knee and was laid up, facing surgery, they'd still had hope. And that hope was crushed, violently and awfully, to nothing. It had sucked, it had been so awful—Tyson spent most of the summer drunk on boats, miserably nursing his broken heart—but he had been eager to get hurt again. And then in 2015 they'd gotten exactly nowhere, but Tyson hadn't cared. He'd gone off with Nate and Factor and Dutchy and won Gold at Worlds. And he kept coming back, even during the hell season, the season where Patrick Roy had quit rather than coach Tyson and Dutchy had begged to be allowed to leave. There had been nothing, nothing, to show for it, nothing but the fans booing them and Sakic threatening to trade them off for parts. And through it all, he'd come to the rink everyday and let hockey break his heart all over again.

But it was different. Hockey was just a sport. Hockey was just something dumb he was doing until he got too old and slow to hack it anymore. Hockey couldn't reject you or make promises to you in your kitchen and then change its mind later.

He wasn't a coward. He was practical. He was an adult. He was making rational choices to protect his stupid, overinvested heart, and he could live with those choices. He could live the rest of his life without Gabe, even if Gabe _did_ like him. Tyson could survive magic curses and the 2017 season and anything else the universe threw at him; he could survive losing Gabe.

But he didn't want to.

He didn't look at Gabe. It wasn't the time. Instead, he ducked low to tie his skates, focusing on the rhythm of threading each lace through the loops. He focused on the team, instead. Nail was humming, off-key, to himself, testing the edge of his blades against a thumb. Over on the other side of the room, Bernie had his head bowed, deep in thought, centering himself. And Gabe was talking quietly to Mark Alt, the new guy, in off waivers, one hand laid on Alt's shoulder. Calm, reassuring, totally in control, he looked every inch the captain he was.

Tyson's heart wobbled in his chest, and with great effort, he forced himself to look away.

There was still five minutes on the clock until warmups when Bednar finally came into the room. The assistant coaches flanked him, and like that, a hush settled over the room. Bednar smiled. "You look nervous," he said. "You don't need to be. You've beat them before, you can beat them again. All we need's the win. This is our house, this is our club. We play our game, our way, and there's no team we can't beat."

Tyson nodded. He looked over at Nate, who was staring fixedly at the seal in the middle of the floor. Gabe was watching Bednar. Even EJ was paying attention, folded arms balanced on his knees. It was quiet enough that you could hear the wall clock ticking with each additional second.

"Captain, you got a speech lined up?" Bednar said, in that inscrutable way of his. Gabe hadn't given a speech last year—there'd been no point, they'd been mathematically eliminated a month before the season limped to an end—but it made sense. Gabe would know what to say.

Gabe looked at Bednar, his profile regal and his expression calm. "No speech," he said. "I said it all yesterday."

Tyson caught sight of Nate just before he ducked his head, cheeks flaming. Gabe had always had the team in the palm of his hand, even when he'd been nineteen and pure ego, but Nate had earned it. Nate had fucking compelled them to believe they could win, even while being cursed, and he really _could_ win the game all by himself. There was zero chance they'd have come this close without Nate. And Tyson wanted it for every single person on the team, but he wanted it for Nate most of all.

He met Gabe's eyes, just for a moment. Gabe was thinking the same thing; Tyson knew he was.

"We've got this, boys," Gabe said, looking around the room at every single player, as if he could make it true, and then he banged his stick against the floor. "Let's go clinch!"

Everyone cheered. Sticks rattled against the floor, Tyson Jost _whooped_ like a frat bro, and Mikko yelled, "Hell fucking yeah!", loud enough that each word was clear even over the din. Bednar looked up at the clock and said, "Alright boys, let's go!" They climbed to their feet, still cheering. They moved down towards the tunnel. EJ called, "Go fuck them up, boys! Go make me proud!" and then he was gone.

There was a sell-out crowd right above their heads. Tyson stood right behind Nate. He was silhouetted in blue light against the dark ice as the announcers started speaking. Then he turned. "Tys," he said, urgently. "Tell me we're going to do it."

"We're going to do it," Tyson said.

"But how do you know?"

"I don't," he admitted. He was scared shitless that they wouldn't. They had been cursed up until this morning, and the curse had ended with no apparent cause or explanation, and who knew? They might get cursed again. They might just go out and play like shit, or just get unlucky. Hockey was unfair sometimes; maybe the whole season would come down to one bad bounce.

But they _could_ win. They had Nate and Gabe back, and that was enough. Tyson's stomach still hurt like he was digesting nails, but it didn't matter; all they needed was the chance to win. Of course it would hurt if they lost, and they definitely might, but that was what made it worth doing. That was what made them let their hearts get broken, over and over again.

Unable to put any of that into words, he seized Nate's shoulder and squeezed. "Fuck it, though. Let's go out and win this."

"Fuck," Nate said. He shook his head. The PA system roared to full volume and the lights started to turn up. Tyson caught one glimpse of Nate's face, the fear and the bravery both, all subsumed under his relentless desire to win, and then Nate turned back around. "Fuck it. Okay. Let's win."

+++

They won.

Somehow, despite everything, they won the game in regulation. They never even trailed. It happened like this:

Sam scored in the dying minutes of the first, and when the puck went in the net behind Allen, Sam exploded. There was no other word for it. Tiny, quiet, stoic Sam, screaming with joy, and eveyone on the bench started screaming too. The Pepsi Center had never, never been that loud before. When they came off at intermission, the entire team launched themselves at Sam, nearly smothering him.

In the second period, they got their power play chance. Nate and Gabe, back to their old selves, were working the Blues for every inch. The passes went Nate to Gabe, Gabe to Mikko, Mikko to Tyson. Tyson took the one-timer without stopping to think or breathe. It should have been offsides—when they flashed the video up on the screen, it was _definitely_ offsides—but the refs let it stand. They were up 2-0.

The crowd got louder. The Blues scored on their own power play, but Nate scored his highlight reel goal to put them back up, 3-1. When they came out for the third the cheering had risen to a roar, so loud it was hard to hear Bednar talking to them on the bench. When the Blues pulled their goalie with five minutes to go, everyone on the bench stopped breathing. Tyson held onto the rail so hard his fingers cramped. Brayden—of course it was Brayden, of course it was—took the shot. Bernie got a piece of it, but it rebounded into the pile of bodies. Gabe was there, and so was Nate, but Brayden was fighting him for it. Their sticks were tangled—Tyson stopped breathing—Gabe fought his way forward—

He lobbed it down to the empty net. The puck hit the netting and the goal horn blared, the most beautiful sound in the world.

The bench lost their _minds_. Nate tackled Gabe into the ice, bellowing with joy, and then Barbs and Nemo jumped on him too, and Mikko threw his body right on top of the pile. Tyson's throat was sore from yelling. Nobody could hear anything. Somehow Gabe fought himself out from the pile and skated back to the bench, at which point every single member of the team fought forward to try to hug him first.

The Blues scored one more, but it wasn't enough. Nietsy sealed it off. The Blues limped to the finish with two goals. The Avs won.

It seemed impossible, even when the last buzzer went off. Tyson didn't believe it. The scoreboard said 5-2 in glowing red letters, but that couldn't be. If curses could actually happen, how was he supposed to know _what_ was real? He jumped over the boards and skated around the ice, stick held aloft, while eighteen thousand fans roared their approval back down at them. Everything had the luminous quality of a very good dream, the kind that you can't help but remember like it really happened.

They had won. It was unreal. It was the wildest, craziest thing, and Tyson just kept stumbling forwards, unable to believe it.

He hugged Gabe. He hugged a lot of people, but Gabe was definitely one of them. Tyson ached when he thought of breaking up with Gabe, but that was a distant pain, a future pain. Right now he merely hugged Gabe back. "Good game," Gabe said, a curl of laughter in his voice. Tyson had no idea if it was him that was funny, or something else, or maybe their entire goddamn lives.

"Thanks," he said, voice hoarse. "You too."

"Can't believe they didn't call offsides," Gabe said. He was slow to let go of Tyson's jersey and even when he did, he didn't move away.

Tyson barked out a laugh. A bead of sweat was trickling down his temple, skirting his ear and down the side of his neck. People were taking photos. None of the fans seemed to have left. The PA system was still roaring, and Bednar was trying to call them back over to the bench but couldn't be heard over the cacophony of screaming. "Maybe I'm just lucky."

Gabe looked at him for another long minute, but Tyson, still shell-shocked, couldn't begin to guess what his expression might mean. They _won_.

About thirty seconds later, he realized what the PA system was blaring about. Someone came onto the ice and started herding them over to the bench—it was Jersey Off Our Backs night, of course. That was why there were fans coming out onto the ice, holding signs and looking expectant. He'd known about it all day—all season—but somehow it had gone completely out of his mind. It was maddening that they couldn't pile off the ice, but the ceremony was a nice tradition, a good thing to do. Dazed, Tyson had basically no memory of the next half-hour. There were photos, a very starstruck fan, a permanent marker that bled onto his sweaty hands, and possibly an interview as he stumbled down the tunnel. He had no idea. He was still moving as if underwater.

Someone clapped him on the back; it was one of their assistant coaches. Tyson pulled the guy into a hug, his brain still operating on tape delay. The coach laughed, trying to wriggle out of Tyson's grip; surely he hadn't wanted a gross, sweaty hug or to have his face smushed into Tyson's rank pads. Tyson didn't care. He hugged the next person who came within reach—Barbs, as it turned out. "Easy, Tyson," Barbs said when they nearly staggered, slapping Tyson heartily on the shoulder.

"Fuck," Tyson said. He stumbled into his stall. Someone had brought beer and was spraying it around the room. The rest of the guys were cramming their way down the tunnel, freed from their press obligations and desperate to get out of their pads. Willy was teary-eyed, predictably; Tyson burst out laughing at that. EJ was on his crutches, bellowing about something that Tyson couldn't quite make out. It was a dream, a really good dream, and any moment now he was going to wake up.

Then Nate came into the room. He looked at Tyson. Tyson looked back at him. The dreamlike quality vanished, disappearing like a popped bubble. Nate's face was full of raw, grateful happiness, mingled with overwhelming relief. Nate couldn't fake that. Even a universe where curses and magic were real could never fake something like that.

Nate yelled his name and then stomped over to his stall. Tyson stood up just in time for Nate to violently bodyslam him backwards, a hug so aggressive that Tyson's head hit the wall. "Fucking hell, Nate," he said, voice smothered by Nate's shoulders.

"I love you, Brutes," Nate said in a fierce voice.

"Fuck you."

"Say it fucking back, Tyson, or I'll kill you."

Tyson rolled his eyes, but there was basically nothing he wouldn't do for Nate. "I love you, too."

"You're my best fucking friend, and you scored a goal, and we're going to the playoffs," Nate said, still clutching Tyson to him bodily, like he was afraid he'd disappear, "You hear that? You're my best friend. You broke the fucking curse, you scored a fucking goal!"

"You don't know that," Tyson protested, because none of them knew how the curse had broken. Nate completely misunderstood him in the din.

"Yes, I do, because it counted! It fucking counted! You scored it, it fucking counts!"

Tyson laughed, light-headed with joy, and dug his fingers into Nate's arms until his knuckles hurt. He didn't know what to say. They didn't know what had fixed the curse and maybe they never would, but it wouldn't have been possible without Nate. Nate and his speeches. Nate starting the scooter gang in San Jose. His goal tonight, that goal, that beautiful fucking goal. And the five years of his life he'd put into the team, endlessly, ceaselessly forcing them to do better, forcing them to get here when there was every reason for them to fail. Nate hadn't let them fail.

Nate liked to say Tyson had adopted him as a rookie, which wasn't true, but Tyson had always tried to do his best by Nate. The team had failed him pretty spectacularly—they'd had that one crack at the playoffs and then two years of mediocrity and then one of total shit—but Nate hadn't ever given up on the team. There was no one who loved the team more than Nate, no one who'd given more to get them here.

There was no one who deserved this win more than he did.

Tyson's face was wet. He was pretty sure he was crying. He shoved his face into Nate's rancid chest protector so that no one could tell. But it was useless; EJ, who had a sixth sense for Tyson embarrassing himself, honed in on him from across the room.

"This is disgusting," he said, as he came up alongside them. "Truly, disgusting display."

Tyson squinted up at him over Nate's shoulder. He tried to glare, but it just made EJ laugh. Surprisingly, EJ looked to be getting misty, too, even though he was smiling hard enough to frame all his missing teeth. Tyson loved him too, but there was no chance of him saying it. He'd already had a sufficiently emotional day. Hell, he'd felt enough feelings this week to last him a lifetime.

Nate didn't give a shit. "Get the fuck over here, man," he said, releasing Tyson with one arm to yank EJ in by the sleeve. EJ, moving with surprising grace considering his broken leg, folded them both into his long arms. Tyson squirmed but it was pointless; he was trapped.

"We're going to the playoffs!" Nate shouted, directly into Tyson's ear. "The fucking _playoffs,_ baby!"

Tyson shoved his hands into his eye sockets, trying to stop himself from crying. It was useless. Nate shook himself free and started bouncing up and down, seizing Sam as he tried to walk past and dragging him into a two-man ball of furious joy. Everyone was drinking. The stereo system was blasting music so loud that it was a struggle to hear anything else. Some poor sap of a reporter was trying to talk to Gabe and Bednar, but the chaos was like a wave, drowning the guy's questions out entirely.

"Enjoy it," EJ said, clapping Tyson on the shoulder. "We did it."

"You didn't do shit," Tyson said half-heartedly, wiping at his eyes. He was still in all his gear, and EJ was in his suit, yet EJ had his arm slung around his shoulders like he didn't have a care in the world. In fairness, JT and Josty were now shaking up beers and dousing everyone within reach of them; EJ's suit was sure to be ruined. In his skates, Tyson was much closer in height to EJ than normal, but all that meant was that EJ was able to give him a noogie while barely lifting his arm.

"I mentored Sam, and in a way, all of you," he said loftily. Tyson punched him in the side. "Ow, fuck you. Also, I helped you break the curse."

"You didn't do shit!"

"You don't know that. Nobody knows how they switched back." On the other side of the room, Nate crashed Gabe's interview, wrestling him into a bearhug that was as violent as it was full of love. Sam had escaped, somehow. Gabe's forehead was barely visible over Nate's shoulder, and the reporter had given up and ended the interview; he knew a lost cause when he saw one.

"All you did was make fun of me and try to get Gabe to spend Nate's money."

"Yeah, but I _believed_ in you," EJ said. "And what could be more important than that?"

Tyson opened his mouth to answer back, but then he shut it. In truth, he had no idea. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. The important thing was that they'd done it—they'd broken the curse. They'd made the playoffs. He didn't know much, but he knew enough not to question a good thing when he had it.

"Thanks, then," he said. He hoped it encompassed more than just believing in them; he hoped it was broad enough to cover everything that EJ had done for him since he'd first made the roster. For being encouraging in his own strange way, for keeping an eye on Gabe when Tyson was busy with Nate, for helping Sam. EJ really should have been on the ice with them, but at least he was here. If Tyson had had the words, he would have blurted all of that out loud. But he didn't, so all he said was _thanks._

"Anytime," EJ said gallantly, squeezing Tyson's shoulder. EJ understood. EJ was good like that. In gratitude, Tyson snagged them both a beer the next time Josty passed. He didn't move out from EJ's arm, just stood there drinking his beer, looking on as the team they loved tore the locker room to pieces.

+++

Tyson drove home with the windows down, the night air sweet as it whistled past him. His phone buzzed: incoming call, from _Dad._ For a brief second he considered answering it, but then, in a fit of pique, he turned his phone off. He'd deal with his dad tomorrow; tonight, he was allowed to be purely happy.

He parked in the garage and stumbled into his kitchen, thinking eight things at once. He should at least call his sister, who would be proud of him, nothing else; he needed to change out of his sticky, beer-drenched suit pants into something that would pass muster at a club. Then there were his friends, from Victoria and around the league, who were surely blowing up his texts right now, and he probably owed Brayden a call, too. He needed to do several things fairly quickly, so he could meet the guys and go celebrate. Instead, overwhelmed, he made a sandwich.

It was a good sandwich. He'd had most of a beer in the locker room, but the protein was much-needed, and he might as well put down a base layer if he was going to get drunk. Standing up over the sink in his darkened kitchen, still wearing his suit, he ate slowly, mind reeling. They _won._ He didn't know if he'd ever quite believe it, but right now it was still a total shock. They had vanquished the curse, somehow, and they won.

They were going to the playoffs.

When he finished, he stripped down to his boxers and tossed his suit into the laundry room. His house was dead silent, but his ears were still ringing. They had clinched. First time since 2014, they were going, it was real.

He was just wriggling into a clean pair of jeans when he heard his doorbell ringing. It was his own fault for turning off his phone; Nate had probably come over to blubber on his shoulder some more. Cursing, Tyson yanked on a shirt and went, carefully this time, back down the stairs. "I had my phone off," he called, as he bounced across the hall, stomach clenching in happiness, "I didn't know you were this goddamn needy, I would have—Gabe?"

Gabe stood on the porch, backlit by the streetlights, his familiar smile lighting up his face. Tyson's heart ricocheted around his ribcage, landing somewhere in his stomach, and he clutched the doorframe for stability. He'd seen Gabe all day, had sex with him this morning, and yet Gabe appearing on his front door completely bowled him over.

Gabe didn't appear to take notice. "You put your suitcase away."

Tyson looked back over his shoulder, even though he _knew_ he'd finally unpacked the suitcase that afternoon, if only to make Nate stop bitching about it. "Uh, yeah," he said.

Gabe smiled knowingly at him. "Can I come in?"

"What are you doing here?"

Gabe's smile softened; Tyson's knees buckled in response. "I want to know if I still have a shot," said Gabe. "I don't look like Nate anymore."

He didn't. He was Gabe again, handsome and funny and everything Tyson wanted. "I figured we should talk," Gabe continued. "Last time we had sex and didn't talk about it, you didn't notice we were dating for eight months."

"Fuck you," Tyson said, but he still let him in. They couldn't have this conversation on the porch, with cars driving by and Gabe looking so golden and perfect in the hazy glow. Gabe followed him into the kitchen. He was still wearing _his_ damp suit, as if he'd come straight over, as if he couldn't wait.

Tyson's hands were shaking now, but he bit the bullet. "I've been thinking about it," he said, as he led Gabe into the kitchen, "And it's still a bad idea. Joe could trade me over the summer, and my contract's up in two years anyway."

"So what does that mean?"

Tyson hesitated, the words half-formed on his tongue for a long minute before he finally forced them out. "It means, no."

"No?"

"No. I can't—we shouldn't, anyway. It's dumb, you'll end up hating me, we shouldn't. You want anything to eat, by the way?" he said, opening a cupboard at random.

"Tys, look at me." Reluctantly, Tyson shut the cupboard. Gabe was standing there in his crumpled, beer-soaked suit, just _looking_ at Tyson. "I like you," Gabe said, which was the second time he'd said that while standing in Tyson's kitchen. Then, he went further. "Honestly, I'm two good dates away from falling in love with you. This is me, telling you. Communicating. Like an adult."

"You're not an adult," Tyson said. "You're younger than me."

Gabe's mouth twitched into an almost-smile. Tyson had really missed that specific expression, and hadn't known he'd been missing it until he saw Gabe do it. "Yeah, and I still want to be with you. I'm sorry I was an asshole this week. I was so mad at you for never telling me how you're feeling, because I want that. I want to be with you. I want to tell everyone, even EJ, and I want this to be real."

Tyson stayed where he was, on the other side of the island. This changed nothing, he reminded himself, it changed none of the reasons why it was a terrible idea, even if he wanted it more than he could bear. "Oh, so you're nuts," he said. "I get it."

"Quit deflecting," Gabe ordered. Tyson scowled at him—did he think this was like hockey, and he could just get what he wanted by pulling the captain card? Chastened, Gabe rubbed the back of his neck and tried again. "Just tell me what you want. Not what you think is going to happen, just... what do you want?"

"I don't know," Tyson said. That was a lie. He knew exactly what he wanted. "It's not like... Gabe. You know how I feel about you."

"Tyson," Gabe said quietly, "I really don't."

Once again, Tyson was trapped in his kitchen with no emergency exits. How was it possible that Gabe didn't know how he felt about him? How could that be, when Tyson had been in love with him since the moment they met?

While Tyson was still floundering, Gabe took a step a closer. And then he twisted the knife. "I never know with you. And I think—I think we'd be good together. I think I could make you happy. And we already know the sex is good." He smiled at his own joke. Tyson didn't, because he couldn't, and the smile slipped away off Gabe's face. "But if you meant what you told EJ, that we're not a couple, I understand. But I just... I had to know."

Yesterday, Tyson would have rather died than tell Gabe how he felt. Even if it should have been obvious—even if Gabe had to be _blind_ not to notice that Tyson had been swooning after him for years—he'd rather swallow rat poison than say something so humiliatingly vulnerable. Saying it to Gabe while he was asleep was one thing. But telling Gabe, the real Gabe, all his goodness and attractiveness concentrated on Tyson, asking him how he felt—how the hell was Tyson meant to do _that?_

He didn't have to say anything. It was not too late to flee. It was not too late to lie, or backtrack, or go to Sakic and request the trade he suspected he'd have to face eventually.

But it didn't have to end that way. Yesterday, the season had been doomed to end in failure, and tonight they were a playoff team. There was a chance for him and Gabe, however small.

Helpless, Tyson covered his face in his hands. "Gabe. Of _course_ I like you."

It hurt coming out, saying it out loud, but it hurt the way drawing a splinter from a wound did. Maybe this was why Willy was always talking about self-actualization; maybe it felt good to be honest with the people you cared about.

"I'm so fucking into you," Tyson continued, because Gabe hadn't said anything and he couldn't stop himself. It was inelegant, but very true. "I've always liked you. I liked you from the minute I met you."

When he finally dared to uncover his eyes, Gabe's face was a picture of hope, raw and unconcealed, shining out of him like he was lit from within. "I was so terrible then," he said solemnly, but there was a smile twitching around the corner of his mouth.

"You're terrible now. You're a bitchy, dramatic asshole, and you have a huge fucking head." And Gabe had been a _really_ terrible nineteen year old, too. "This doesn't change anything, though. It's still a bad idea. What about the summer?"

Gabe shrugged, unconcerned. "We've got four games, guaranteed. Let's make it sixteen."

"And next season?"

"I think it's more like 82 games," Gabe said, smirking now. He took three steps forward, to within Tyson's reach. The lip of the counter collided with Tyson's back; there was nowhere for him to go. For once, he didn't mind it. He didn't want to get away, not really. "But I figure we can win 70, 75 of them."

Tyson laughed despite himself. "Gabe," he said, speaking slowly, trying not to break the spell. "Look, I'm not saying this because I have low self-esteem or whatever, but I'm so fucking annoying, and I get on people's nerves, and I'm really not hot." Gabe snorted, but Tyson persisted. "I know you're into this now," he said, gesturing at himself, "But this is as good as it gets, and you've gotten hotter every year I've known you."

His resolve was crumbling. He'd never had any resolve, really, not where Gabe was concerned. But he wanted it on record. He wanted Gabe to walk in with his eyes open, here. People worse than Tyson found love every day, but not with people like Gabe.

"I told you," Gabe said, pulling Tyson in by the belt loops, "I like the way you look. I like everything about you. And I've known for a really long time now, since that stupid Edmonton game, when you came over and fucked me so good and then immediately passed out on my couch and drooled all over it. So I'm sorry, but I think it's true love over here."

Tyson's first thought was that he could _not_ believe that Gabe had been jerking off to the Edmonton game because that was the day he realized he had feelings for Tyson. And then, more slowly, the word _love_ penetrated Tyson's brain. Tyson suddenly felt like the floor had been yanked out from under him.

Gabe was worrying at his bottom lip, clearly waiting on Tyson's response. "Too much?" he said. And Tyson—a more grown-up person would have used their words—Tyson, however, totally overwhelmed, kissed him.

Gabe's mouth parted, hot and wet, and Tyson dug his fingers into Gabe's hair, tightening until Gabe gasped. "Stop," he said breathlessly, shoving Tyson back a step, "I have more to say." And then he contradicted himself by kissing the underside of Tyson's jaw, unhurried like he had all the time in the world.

"No way," Tyson said, which he both meant and didn't mean. "Unless it's about the Edmonton game, but only the sex. Otherwise shut up."

Gabe laughed at him. He kissed him, too, to sweeten the sting. "Let me say this, it's important. As for the rest of it, the bullshit, the season, whatever: I don't care. I want to try. I think you're worth it. What do you want?"

If Tyson hadn't experienced a magic curse and clinched the playoffs today, he wouldn't have done it. It wasn't bravery; Tyson was still scared out of his mind. Magic was real, but only in a stupid way, and Gabe would be majorly settling, and he could be traded just as easily if they won the Cup as if they didn't. No matter what Gabe's feelings were, they could still fuck it all up. Tyson had been in love before and ruined it; Gabe had too. It wasn't smart to say yes. It was dumb, as dumb a risk as he'd ever taken. Part of him was screaming in terror that it was all going to blow up in his face.

But it wasn't inevitable. Nothing was. Hadn't tonight proved that?

If there was a chance for him and Gabe, he knew what he wanted to do.

"I want to..." he said, breaking off when the words tapered off in his dry throat. Gabe didn't rush him, even though he must have wanted to; he just waited, patiently, until Tyson found his voice. "Yeah, I want to try."

Gabe moved, crushing Tyson in his arms so tightly that Tyson felt his ribs click. Smothered, Tyson didn't fight to let go. Instead, he clung just as fiercely to Gabe as Gabe was to him.

"Yeah?" Gabe said, breathless. His cheek was against Tyson's jaw, their stubble catching and making Tyson shiver. He sounded happier than Tyson had ever heard him, including an hour ago, when they'd clinched.

Tyson let go of his fear. It didn't go anywhere, but he didn't have to hold onto it like a millstone around his neck. "Yeah," he said, meaning it. "Let's do this. Let's try."

There was no transition from clinging to each other to kissing. Tyson turned his head and their mouths met, easy as breathing. Gabe kissed him gently, but Tyson wasn't having it—not after the week they'd had, not after the night he'd had. He put his fingers in Gabe's hair and _pulled_. Gabe, always a team player, didn't question it. Instead he backed Tyson farther into the island. Nipping at his lower lip, he untucked Tyson's shirt from his jeans and held him in place by the hipbones, keeping him steady while he ground their hips together.

Gabe grinding on him was great, Tyson appreciated it, but he didn't want a counter-shaped bruise in his lower back. Instead, he grabbed Gabe's hand and pulled him into the living room. Gabe took over from there: he knocked Tyson back onto the blue sofa, settling himself on Tyson's lap. Tyson had not seen that move coming. Breathing quickly already, he grabbed for Gabe's thighs, to anchor himself as much as Gabe. His pants were still tacky with beer, and Tyson's fingers slipped through the sticky fabric.

Gabe paused and covered Tyson's hands with his own. His palms were damp. Gabe had been _nervous_, waiting for Tyson's answer. Tyson, overcome, hid his face beneath his arms. "Stop," Gabe said, laughing, and peeled Tyson's hands away. "Stop. Why are you smiling like that?"

Because he was happy. "I'm not smiling. Shut up." And then, to get Gabe to stop smirking at him, Tyson leaned up and kissed him.

They had only been making out for a minute or two—Tyson had his hands up the back of Gabe's crumpled, sticky shirt, and he _really_ needed him out of this suit, yesterday—when Gabe pushed up onto his elbows, just too far away to kiss. "Is that your phone?" he demanded, blond hair standing up in tufts where Tyson's fingers had run through it. Tyson, dazed, forced himself to stop focusing on Gabe's swollen bottom lip and listen.

It was, but not his cellphone—it was his landline, the one on the sideboard he still paid for out of sheer laziness and never answered. Tyson craned his head to squint at the caller ID.

"Tys, if you answer it, I'll kill you."

"It's Nate, though. I have to answer it. What if something magical happened again?" Tyson asked, but the truth was, he just had to answer it. Gabe rolled his eyes fondly and let Tyson up just enough to grab for the handset. He knew how Nate and Tyson were. "Hi, Dogg. What's up?"

"Your fucking phone is off, do you know that? I'm coming over." Nate was definitely in his car. He was blasting music through the speakers so loud that Tyson had to hold the receiver away from his ear. Wincing, he shook his head, making no move to dislodge Gabe off his thighs.

"You can't come over. Gabe's here. We're talking."

"No, we're _not_ talking," Gabe said, seizing the phone to yell into it. Tyson threw up his hands, but Gabe continued, undeterred. "If you come into Tyson's house, what you see will _not_ be talking, do you understand me, Nate?"

"You _what?_ Tyson, what the fuck?"

Gabe didn't look remotely apologetic, but he did hand Tyson back the phone. Tyson frowned up at him and yanked on a stray lock of blond hair. "I can't get into it right now, Nate," he said. Gabe grabbed for his arm and brought his wrist to his mouth for a kiss. It was sweeter than Gabe had ever been with him before; telling Gabe he liked him was paying dividends already. "Also, I know this is weird timing, but I think I'm dating Gabe."

Gabe's smile was so luminous it made Tyson's chest hurt. Definitely dating, then.

"I'm not dealing with any of that tonight. I love you, dude, I'm happy for you guys, but you're going to have to explain that later." Tyson would have argued, but Gabe was kissing his shoulder now, and then his neck. His protests died in his throat. "Right now I'm coming over, you're keeping your pants on, we're getting drunk. We're going to the _playoffs,_ baby! I'm bringing EJ. And maybe Mikko. And maybe some other people. Definitely some girls."

"Are you throwing a party at my house? Gabe says you're not allowed to."

"It's just a pregame, and it's the fucking playoffs!"

He sounded so happy, and as much as Tyson appreciated having Gabe spread over his lap, he wanted to see Nate. He wanted to have the whole team come over and destroy his house as thoroughly as they'd destroyed the locker room. When they had last gone to the playoffs in 2014, they'd had a party at Max's and completely trashed the place. Tyson wanted it to be his house tonight, because that's what you did for your team. And next year, who knew? Maybe it would be Josty, or Sam, or a prospect still working his way through the system, and some day it would be some kid that hadn't even been drafted yet.

He tugged on Gabe's hair again, just hard enough to get his attention. Gabe sat up enough to frown at him. "It _is_ the playoffs," Tyson told him gently.

"We haven't had sex since this morning!"

"Fuck you," Nate said through the phone, sounding revolted, "That's disgusting. I'll be there in ten minutes." And then he hung up.

Gabe sat back on Tyson's lap, his expression dark. "You fucking _owe_ me for this," he said grumpily, and he would not be mollified even when Tyson ran his hands up his sides, admiring the band of muscles that even the long season hadn't stripped away. "We have had sex _once_ this week, and now we're going to spend the night trying to keep Mikko from puking in your bathtub."

Mikko had thrown up in a tub at every single end-of-season party they'd ever had. But the season wasn't over yet—they had four games, guaranteed. And Mikko had never been around for the playoffs before, or a playoffs party. He was probably still going to end the night puking in a bathtub, but there was no way to be sure.

"Yeah, I'll owe you one," Tyson said. "Guess I'll have to stick around, so you can collect."

Gabe's scowl melted away. It was thrilling to see, and even better when he leaned down and kissed Tyson sweetly. There was a promise in that kiss, one without an expiration date. Tyson's heart ached as he realized he had everything he wanted. There was nothing to do but be grateful for it.

Elsewhere, Nate was calling EJ and offering him a ride, and the rookies were taking ill-advised pre-pregame shots, and somewhere, magic existed, unpredictable and wild.

Tyson had no idea what would happen next—beyond the usual debauchery, some light property damage and a smattering of alcohol poisoning. Coach would probably bagskate them on Monday until they puked out every lost drop of beer. But after that it was all a mystery: they'd play the Predators in Nashville, and he and Gabe would be in a real relationship, which was as exciting as it was terrifying. Tyson would have to keep being brave, every day for the rest of time, which seemed nearly as impossible as beating the Preds. The stats said it was unlikely; the stats said there was no way they'd win the Cup.

But who knew?

Stranger things had happened.

**Author's Note:**

> FAQ:
> 
> Q: why did Gabe and Nate switch bodies in the first place?  
A: true love, next question!!


End file.
